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CLARENCE 


BY 


BRET  HARTE 


1^     -^ 

^i^-'"^"i 

^^^1 

i 

^BiOPr!$tiif]^rr!$i 

BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

189s 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  BRET   HARTE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  V.  S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


OLAREJv^OE. 


PART  I. 
CHAPTER  I. 


As  Clarence  Brant,  President  of  the  Ro- 
bles  Land  Company,  and  husband  of  the 
rich  widow  of  John  Peyton,  of  the  Robles 
Ranehe,  mingled  with  the  outgoing  audience 
of  the  Cosmopolitan  Theatre,  at  San  Fran- 
cisco, he  elicited  the  usual  smiling  nods  and 
recognition  due  to  his  good  looks  and  good 
fortune.  But  as  he  hurriedly  slipped 
through  the  still  lingering  winter's  rain  into 
the  smart  coupe  that  was  awaitmg  him,  and 
gave  the  order  "  Home,"  the  word  struck 
him  with  a  peculiarly  ironical  significance. 
His  home  was  a  handsome  one,  and  lacked 
nothing  in  appointment  and  comfort,  but  he 
had  gone  to  the  theatre  to  evade  its  hollow 
loneliness.  Nor  was  it  because  his  wife  was 
not  there,  for  he  had  a  miserable  conscious- 
ness that  her  temporary  absence  had  nothing 

602948 


2  CLARENCE. 

to  do  with  his  homelessness.  The  distrac- 
tion of  the  theatre  over,  that  dull,  vague, 
but  aching  sense  of  loneliness  which  was 
daily  growing  upon  him  returned  with 
greater  vigor. 

He  leaned  back  in  the  coupe  and  gloomily 
reflected. 

He  had  been  married  scarcely  a  year,  yet 
even  in  the  illusions  of  the  honeymoon  the 
woman,  older  than  himself,  and  the  widow 
of  his  old  patron,  had  half  unconsciously 
reasserted  herself,  and  slipped  back  into  the 
domination  of  her  old  position.  It  was  at 
first  pleasant  enough, —  this  half -maternal 
protectorate  which  is  apt  to  mingle  even 
with  the  affections  of  younger  women, —  and 
Clarence,  in  his  easy,  half-feminine  intui- 
tion of  the  sex,  yielded,  as  the  strong  are 
apt  to  yield,  through  the  very  consciousness 
of  their  own  superiority.  But  this  is  a 
quality  the  weaker  are  not  apt  to  recognize, 
and  the  woman  who  has  once  tasted  equal 
power  with  her  husband  not  only  does  not 
easily  relegate  it,  but  even  makes  its  contin- 
uance a  test  of  the  affections.  The  usual 
triumphant  feminine  conclusion,  "Then  you 
no  longer  love  me,"  had  in  Clarence's  brief 
experience  gone  even  further  and  reached 


CLARENCE.  3 

its  inscrutable  climax,  "  Then  I  no  longer 
love  you,"  although  shown  only  in  a  momen- 
tary hardening  of  the  eye  and  voice.  And 
added  to  this  was  his  sudden,  but  con- 
fused remembrance  that '  he  had  seen  that 
eye  and  heard  that  voice  in  marital  alterca- 
tion during  Judge  Peyton's  life,  and  that 
he  himself,  her  boy  partisan,  had  symjDa- 
thized  with  her.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  this 
had  given  him  more  pain  than  her  occa- 
sional other  reversions  to  the  past  —  to  her 
old  suspicions  of  him  when  he  was  a  youth- 
ful protege  of  her  husband  and  a  presumed 
suitor  of  her  adopted  daughter  Susy.  High 
natures  are  more  apt  to  forgive  wrong  done 
to  themselves  than  any  abstract  injustice. 
And  her  capricious  tyranny  over  her  depen- 
dents and  servants,  or  an  unreasoning  en- 
mity to  a  neighbor  or  friend,  outraged  his 
finer  sense  more  than  her  own  misconcep- 
tion of  himself.  Nor  did  he  dream  that  this 
was  a  thing  most  women  seldom  understand, 
or,  understanding,  ever  forgive. 

The  coupe  rattled  over  the  stones  or 
swirled  through  the  muddy  pools  of  the  main 
thoroughfares.  Newspaper  and  telegraphic 
offices  were  still  brilliantly  lit,  and  crowds 
were  gathered  among  the  bulletin   boards. 


4  CLARENCE. 

He  knew  tliat  news  had  arrived  from  Wash- 
ington that  evening  of  the  first  active  out- 
breaks of  secession,  and  that  the  city  was 
breathless  with  excitement.  Had  he  not  just 
come  from  the  theatre,  where  certain  insig- 
nificant allusions  in  the  play  had  been  sud- 
denly caught  up  and  cheered  or  hissed  by 
hitherto  unknown  partisans,  to  the  dumb 
astonishment  of  a  majority  of  the  audience 
comfortably  settled  to  money-getting  and 
their  own  affairs  alone?  Had  he  not  ap- 
plauded, albeit  half-scornfully,  the  pretty 
actress  —  his  old  playmate  Susy  — ■  who  had 
audaciously  and  all  incongruously  waved  the 
American  flag  in  their  faces  ?  Yes !  he  had 
known  it;  had  lived  for  the  last  few  weeks 
in  an  atmosphere  electrically  surcharged 
with  it  —  and  yet  it  had  chiefly  affected  him 
in  his  personal  homelessness.  For  his  wife 
was  a  Southerner,  a  born  slaveholder,  and 
a  secessionist,  whose  noted  prejudices  to  the 
North  had  even  outrun  her  late  husband's 
politics.  At  first  the  piquancy  and  reck- 
lessness of  her  opinionative  speech  amused 
him  as  part  of  her  characteristic  flavor,  or 
as  a  lingering  youthfulness  which  the  ma- 
turer  intellect  always  pardons.  He  had 
never   taken   her    politics    seriously  —  why 


CLARENCE.  5 

should  he  ?  With  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
he  had  listened  to  her  extravagant  diatribes 
against  the  North.  He  had  forgiven  her 
outrageous  indictment  of  his  caste  and  his 
associates  for  the  sake  of  the  imperious  but 
handsome  lips  that  uttered  it.  But  when 
he  was  compelled  to  listen  to  her  words 
echoed  and  repeated  by  her  friends  and 
family;  when  he  found  that  with  the  clan- 
nishness  of  her  race  she  had  drawn  closer  to 
them  in  this  controversy,  —  that  she  de- 
pended upon  them  for  her  intelligence  and 
information  rather  than  upon  him, —  he  had 
awakened  to  the  reality  of  his  situation.  He 
had  borne  the  allusions  of  her  brother, 
whose  old  scorn  for  his  dependent  childhood 
had  been  embittered  by  his  sister's  mar- 
riage and  was  now  scarcely  concealed.  Yet, 
while  he  had  never  altered  his  own  political 
faith  and  social  creed  in  this  antagonistic 
atmosphere,  he  had  often  wondered,  with 
his  old  conscientiousness  and  characteristic 
self-abnegation,  whether  his  own  political 
convictions  were  not  merely  a  revulsion 
from  his  domestic  tyranny  and  alien  sur- 
roundings. 

In  the   midst  of   this   gloomy  retrospect 
the   coupe   stopped  with  a  jerk  before  his 


6  CLARENCE. 

own  house.  The  door  was  quickly  opened  by 
a  servant,  who  appeared  to  be  awaiting  him. 

"  Some  one  to  see  you  in  the  library,  sir," 
said  the  man,  "  and  "  —  He  hesitated  and 
looked  towards  the  coupe. 

"  Well?"  said  Clarence  impatiently. 

"  He  said,  sir,  as  how  you  were  not  to 
send  away  the  carriage." 

"  Indeed,  and  who  is  it?  "  demanded  Clar- 
ence sharply. 

"  Mr.  Hooker.  He  said  I  was  to  say 
Jim  Hooker." 

The  momentary  annoyance  in  Clarence's 
face  changed  to  a  look  of  reflective  curiosity. 

"  He  said  he  knew  you  were  at  the  thea- 
tre, and  he  would  wait  until  you  came 
home,"  continued  the  man,  dubiously  watch- 
ing his  master's  face.  "He  don't  know 
you  've  come  in,  sir,  and  —  and  I  can  easily 
get  rid  of  him." 

"  No  matter  now.  I  '11  see  him,  and," 
added  Clarence,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  let 
the  carriage  wait." 

Yet,  as  he  turned  towards  the  library  he 
was  by  no  means  certain  that  an  interview 
with  the  old  associate  of  his  boyhood  under 
Judge  Peyton's  guardianship  would  divert 
his  mind.     Yet  he  let  no  trace  of  his  doubts 


CLARENCE.  7 

nor  of  his  past  gloom  show  in  his  face  as  he 
entered  the  room. 

Mr.  Hooker  was  apparently  examining 
the  elegant  furniture  and  luxurious  accom- 
modation with  his  usual  resentful  envious- 
ness.  Clarence  had  got  a  "soft  thing." 
That  it  was  more  or  less  the  result  of  his 
"artfulness,"  and  that  he  was  unduly 
"puffed  up"  by  it,  was,  in  Hooker's  char- 
acteristic reasoning,  equally  clear.  As  his 
host  smilingly  advanced  with  outstretched 
hand,  Mr.  Hooker's  efforts  to  assume  a 
proper  abstraction  of  manner  and  contemp- 
tuous indifference  to  Clarence's  surround- 
ings which  should  wound  his  vanity  ended 
in  his  lolling  back  at  full  length  in  the  chair 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  But,  remem- 
bering suddenly  that  he  was  really  the 
bearer  of  a  message  to  Clarence,  it  struck 
him  that  his  supine  position  was,  from  a 
theatrical  view-point,  infelicitous.  In  his 
experiences  of  the  stage  he  had  never  de- 
livered a  message  in  that  way.  He  rose 
awkwardly  to  his  feet. 

"It  was  so  good  of  you  to  wait,"  said 
Clarence  courteously. 

"Saw  you  in  the  theatre,"  said  Hooker 
brusquely.      "Third  row  in  parquet.      Susy 


8  CLARENCE. 

said  it  was  you,  and  had  suthin'  to  say  to 
you.  Suthin'  you  ought  to  know,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  slight  return  of  his  old  mys- 
tery of  manner  which  Clarence  so  well  re- 
membered. "You  saw  her  —  she  fetched 
the  house  with  that  flag  business,  eh?  She 
knows  which  way  the  cat  is  going  to  jump, 
you  bet.  I  tell  you,  for  all  the  blowing  of 
these  secessionists,  the  Union 's  goin'  to 
pay !  Yes,  sir !  "  He  stopped,  glanced 
round  the  handsome  room,  and  added 
darkly,  "Mebbee  better  than  this." 

With  the  memory  of  Hooker's  character- 
istic fondness  for  mystery  still  in  his  mind, 
Clarence  overlooked  the  innuendo,  and  said 
smilingly,  — 

"Why  did  n't  you  bring  Mrs.  Hooker 
here?  I  should  have  been  honored  with 
her  company." 

Mr.  Hooker  frowned  slightly  at  this  seem- 
ing levity. 

"Never  goes  out  after  a  performance. 
Nervous  exhaustion.  Left  her  at  our  rooms 
in  Market  Street.  We  can  drive  there  in 
ten  minutes.  That 's  why  I  asked  to  have 
the  carriage  wait." 

Clarence  hesitated.  Without  caring  in 
the  least  to  renew  the  acquaintance  of  his 


CLARENCE.  9 

old  playmate  and  sweetheart,  a  meeting  that 
night  in  some  vague  way  suggested  to  him 
a  providential  diversion.  Nor  was  he  de- 
ceived by  any  gravity  in  the  message. 
With  his  remembrance  of  Susy's  theatrical 
tendencies,  he  was  quite  prepared  for  any 
capricious  futile  extravagance. 

"You  are  sure  we  will  not  disturb  her?  " 
he  said  politely. 

"No." 

Clarence  led  the  way  to  the  carriage.  If 
Mr.  Hooker  expected  him  during  the  jour- 
ney to  try  to  divine  the  purport  of  Susy's 
message  he  was  disappointed.  His  compan- 
ion did  not  allude  to  it.  Possibly  looking 
upon  it  as  a  combined  theatrical  perform- 
ance, Clarence  preferred  to  wait  for  Susy  as 
the  better  actor.  The  carriage  rolled  rap- 
idly through  the  now  deserted  streets,  and 
at  last,  under  the  directions  of  Mr.  Hooker, 
who  was  leaning  half  out  of  the  window,  it 
drew  up  at  a  middle-class  restaurant,  above 
whose  still  lit  and  steaming  windows  were 
some  ostentatiously  public  apartments,  ac- 
cessible from  a  side  entrance.  As  they 
ascended  the  staircase  together,  it  became 
evident  that  Mr.  Hooker  was  scarcely  more 
at  his  ease  in  the  character  of  host  than  he 


10  CLARENCE. 

had  been  as  guest.  He  stared  gloomily  at 
a  descending  visitor,  grunted  audibly  at  a 
waiter  in  the  passage,  and  stopped  before  a 
door,  where  a  recently  deposited  tray  dis- 
played the  half -eaten  carcase  of  a  fowl,  an 
empty  champagne  bottle,  two  half-filled 
glasses,  and  a  faded  bouquet.  The  whole 
passage  was  redolent  with  a  singular  blend- 
ing of  damp  cooking,  stale  cigarette  smoke, 
and  patchouli. 

Putting  the  tray  aside  with  his  foot,  Mr. 
Hooker  opened  the  door  hesitatingly  and 
peered  into  the  room,  muttered  a  few  indis- 
tinct words,  which  were  followed  by  a  rapid 
rustling  of  skirts,  and  then,  with  his  hand 
still  on  the  door-knob,  turning  to  Clarence, 
who  had  discreetly  halted  on  the  threshold, 
flung  the  door  open  theatrically  and  bade 
him  enter. 

"She  is  somewhere  in  the  suite,"  he 
added,  with  a  large  wave  of  the  hand  to- 
wards a  door  that  was  still  oscillating-.  "Be 
here  in  a  minit." 

Clarence  took  in  the  apartment  with  a 
quiet  glance.  Its  furniture  had  the  frayed 
and  discolored  splendors  of  a  public  parlor 
which  had  been  privately  used  and  mal- 
treated;   there    were   stains   in    the    larsre 


CLARENCE.  11 

medallioned  carpet;  the  gilded  veneer  had 
been  chipped  from  a  heavy  centre  table, 
showing  the  rough,  white  deal  beneath, 
which  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  stage 
"property;"  the  walls,  paneled  with  gilt- 
framed  mirrors,  reflected  every  domestic 
detail  or  private  relaxation  with  shameless 
publicity.  A  damp  waterproof,  shawl,  and 
open  newspaper  were  lying  across  the  once 
brilliant  sofa;  a  powder-puff,  a  plate  of 
fruit,  and  a  play-book  were  on  the  centre 
table,  and  on  the  marble-topised  sideboard 
was  Mr.  Hooker's  second-best  hat,  with  a 
soiled  collar,  evidently  but  lately  exchanged 
for  the  one  he  had  on,  peeping  over  its  brim. 
The  whole  apartment  seemed  to  mingle  the 
furtive  disclosures  of  the  dressing  -  room 
with  the  open  ostentations  of  the  stage, 
with  even  a  slight  suggestion  of  the  audito- 
rium in  a  few  scattered  programmes  on  the 
floor  and  chairs. 

The  inner  door  opened  again  with  a 
slight  theatrical  start,  and  Susy,  in  an  elab- 
orate dressing-gown,  moved  languidly  into 
the  room.  She  apparently  had  not  had  time 
to  change  her  underskirt,  for  there  was  the 
dust  of  the  stage  on  its  delicate  lace  edging, 
as  she  threw  herself  into  an  armchair  and 


12  CLARENCE. 

crossed  her  pretty  slippered  feet  before  her. 
Her  face  was  pale,  its  pallor  incautiously 
increased  by  powder;  and  as  Clarence 
looked  at  its  still  youthful,  charming  out- 
line, he  was  not  perhaps  sorry  that  the  ex- 
quisite pink  and  white  skin  beneath,  which 
he  had  once  kissed,  was  hidden  from  that 
awakened  recollection.  Yet  there  was  little 
trace  of  the  girlish  Susy  in  the  pretty,  but 
prematurely  jaded,  actress  before  him,  and 
he  felt  momentarily  relieved.  It  was  her 
youth  and  freshness  appealing  to  his  own 
youth  and  imagination  that  he  had  loved  — 
not  her.  Yet  as  she  greeted  him  with  a 
slight  exaggeration  of  glance,  voice,  and 
manner,  he  remembered  that  even  as  a  girl 
she  was  an  actress. 

Nothing  of  this,  however,  was  in  his  voice 
and  manner  as  he  gently  thanked  her  for  the 
opportunity  of  meeting  her  again.  And  he 
was  frank,  for  the  diversion  he  had  expected 
he  had  found;  he  even  was  conscious  of 
thinking  more  kindly  of  his  wife  who  had 
supplanted  her. 

"I  told  Jim  he  must  fetch  you  if  he  had 
to  carry  you,"  she  said,  striking  the  palm 
of  her  hand  with  her  fan,  and  glancing  at 
her  husband.      "I  reckon  he  guessed  why, 


CLARENCE.  13 

thougli  I  did  n't  tell  him  —  I  don't  tell  Jim 
everything  J"  ^ 

Here  Jim  rose,  and  looking  at  his  watch, 
"onessed  he  'd  run  over  to  the  Lick  House 
and  get  some  cigars."  If  he  was  acting 
upon  some  hint  from  his  wife,  his  simula- 
tion was  so  badly  done  that  Clarence  felt  his 
first  sense  of  uneasiness.  But  as  Hooker 
closed  the  door  awkwardly  and  unostenta- 
tiously behind  him,  Clarence  smilingly  said 
he  had  waited  to  hear  the  message  from  her 
own  lips. 

"Jim  only  knows  what  he's  heard  out- 
side: the  talk  of  men,  you  know,  —  and  he 
hears  a  good  deal  of  that  —  more,  perhaps, 
than  you  do.  It  was  that  which  put  me  up 
to  finding  out  the  truth.  And  I  didn't  rest 
till  I  did.  I  'm  not  to  be  fooled,  Clarence, 
—  you  don't  mind  my  calling  you  Clarence 
now  we  're  both  married  and  done  for,  —  and 
I  'm  not  the  kind  to  be  fooled  by  anybody 
from  the  Cow  counties  —  and  that 's  the  Ro- 
bles  Ranche.  I  'm  a  Southern  woman  myself 
from  Missouri,  but  I  'm  for  the  Union  first, 
last,  and  all  the  time,  and  I  call  myself  a 
match  for  any  lazy,  dawdling,  lash-swinging 
slaveholder  and  slaveholderess  —  whether 
they  're  mixed  blood,  Heaven  only  knows, 


14  CLARENCE. 

or  what  —  or  their  friends  or  relations,  or 
the  dirty  half-Spanish  grandees  and  their 
mixed  half  -  nigger  peons  who  truckle  to 
them.     You  bet!" 

His  blood  had  stirred  quickly  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  Robles  Kanche,  but  the  rest  of 
Susy's  speech  was  too  much  in  the  vein  of 
her  old  extravagance  to  touch  him  seriously. 
He  found  himself  only  considering  how 
strange  it  was  that  the  old  petulance  and 
impulsiveness  of  her  girlhood  were  actually 
bringing  back  with  them  her  pink  cheeks 
and  brilliant  eyes. 

"You  surely  didn't  ask  Jim  to  bring  me 
here,"  he  said  smilingly,  "to  tell  me  that 
Mrs.  Peyton"  —  he  corrected  himself  has- 
tily as  a  malicious  sparkle  came  into  Susy's 
blue  eyes — "that  my  wife  was  a  Southern 
woman,  and  probably  sympathized  with  her 
class?  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  should 
blame  her  for  that  any  more  than  she  should 
blame  me  for  being  a  Northern  man  and  a 
Unionist." 

"And  she  does  n't  blame  you?"  asked 
Susy  sneeringly. 

The  color  came  slightly  to  Clarence's 
cheek,  but  before  he  could  reply  the  actress 
added, — 


CLARENCE.  15 

"No,  she  prefers  to  use  you!  " 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  said 
Clarence,  rising  coldly. 

"No,  you  don't  understand  Aer/"  re- 
torted Susy  sharply.  "Look  here,  Clar- 
ence Brant,  you  're  right;  I  didn't  ask  you 
here  to  tell  you  —  what  you  and  everybody 
knows  —  that  your  wife  is  a  Southerner.  I 
didn't  ask  you  here  to  tell  you  what  every- 
body suspects  —  that  she  turns  you  round 
her  little  finger.  But  I  did  ask  you  here  to 
tell  you  what  nobody,  not  even  you,  sus- 
pects —  but  what  /  know !  —  and  that  is  that 
she's  a  traitor — and  more,  a  spy!  —  and 
that  I  've  only  got  to  say  the  word,  or  send 
that  man  Jim  to  say  the  word,  to  have  her 
dragged  out  of  her  Copperhead  den  at  Ro- 
bles  Ranche  and  shut  up  in  Fort  Alcatraz 
this  very  night!  " 

Still  with  the  pink  glowing  in  her  round- 
ing cheek,  and  eyes  snajjping  like  splintered 
sapphires,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  with  her 
pretty  shoulders  lifted,  her  small  hands  and 
white  teeth  both  tightly  clenched,  and  took 
a  step  towards  him.  Even  in  her  attitude 
there  was  a  reminiscence  of  her  wilKul  child- 
hood, although  still  blended  with  the  pro- 
vincial actress  whom    he    had  seen   on  the 


16  CLARENCE. 

stage  only  an  hour  ago.  Thoroughly 
alarmed  at  her  threat,  in  his  efforts  to  con- 
ceal his  feelings  he  was  not  above  a  weak 
retaliation.  Stepping  back,  he  affected  to 
rea:ard  her  with  a  critical  admiration  that 
was  only  half  simulated,  and  said  with  a 
smile,  — 

"  Very  well  done  —  but  you  have  forgot- 
ten the  flag." 

She  did  not  flinch.  Rather  accepting  the 
sarcasm  as  a  tribute  to  her  art,  she  went  on 
with  increasing  exaggeration:  "No,  it  is 
you  who  have  forgotten  the  flag  —  forgotten 
your  country,  your  people,  your  manhood 
—  everything  for  that  high-toned,  double- 
dyed  old  spy  and  traitress !  For  while  you 
are  standing  here,  your  wife  is  gathering 
under  her  roof  at  Robles  a  gang  of  spies  and 
traitors  like  herself  —  secession  leaders  and 
their  bloated,  drunken  'chivalry ' !  Yes, 
you  may  smile  your  superior  smile,  but  I 
tell  you,  Clarence  Brant,  that  with  all  your 
smartness  and  book  learning  you  know  no 
more  of  what  goes  on  around  you  than  a 
child.  But  others  do !  This  conspiracy  is 
known  to  the  government,  the  Federal  offi- 
cers have  been  warned ;  General  Sumner  has 
been  sent  out  here  —  and  his  first  act  was  to 


CLARENCE.  17 

change  the  command  at  Fort  Alcatraz,  and 
send  your  wife's  Southern  friend  —  Captain 
Pinckney  —  to  the  right  about !  Yes  — 
everything  is  known  but  one  thing,  and  that 
is  loJiere  and  lioiv  this  precious  crew  meet! 
That  I  alone  know,  and  that  I  've  told 
you!" 

"And  I  suppose,"  said  Clarence,  with  an 
unchanged  smile,  "that  this  valuable  infor- 
mation came  from  your  husband  —  my  old 
friend,  Jim  Hooker?" 

"No,"  she  answered  sharply,  "it  comes 
from  Cencho  —  one  of  your  own  peons  — 
who  is  more  true  to  you  and  the  old 
Rancho  than  you  have  ever  been.  He  saw 
what   was  going   on,  and   came    to  me,   to 


warn  you 


"But  why  not  to  me  directly?"  asked 
Clarence,  with  affected  incredulity. 

"Ask  him!"  she  said  viciously.  "Per- 
haps he  didn't  want  to  wai'n  the  master 
against  the  mistress.  Pei-haps  he  thought 
?f?e  are  still  friends.  Perhaps"  —  she  hesi- 
tated with  a  lower  voice  and  a  forced  smile 
—  "perhaps  he  used  to  see  us  together  in 
the  old  times." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Clarence  quietly. 
"And   for  the   sake   of   those   old    times, 


18  CLARENCE. 

Susy,"  he  went  on,  with  a  singular  gentle- 
ness that  was  quite  distinct  from  his  paling 
face  and  set  eyes,  "I  am  going  to  forget 
all  that  you  have  just  said  of  me  and  mine, 
in  all  the  old  willfulness  and  impatience  that 
I  see  you  still  keep  —  with  all  your  old 
prettiness."  He  took  his  hat  from  the  table 
and  gravely  held  out  his  hand. 

She  was  frightened  for  a  moment  with  his 
impassive  abstraction.  In  the  old  days  she 
had  known  it  —  had  believed  it  was  his 
dogged  "obstinacy"  —  but  she  knew  the 
hopelessness  of  opposing  it.  Yet  with  fem- 
inine persistency  she  again  threw  herself 
against  it,  as  against  a  wall. 

"You  don't  believe  me!  Well,  go  and 
see  for  yourself.  They  are  at  Robles  now. 
If  you  catch  the  early  morning  stage  at 
Santa  Clara  you  will  come  upon  them  be- 
fore they  disperse.      Dare  you  try  it?" 

"Whatever  I  do,"  he  returned  smil- 
ingly, "I  shall  always  be  grateful  to  you 
for  giving  me  this  opportunity  of  seeing  you 
again  as  you  were.  Make  my  excuses  to 
your  husband.      Good-night." 

"Clarence!" 

But  he  had  already  closed  the  door  behind 
him.     His  face  did  not  relax  its  expression 


CLARENCE.  19 

nor  change  as  he  looked  again  at  the  tray 
with  its  broken  viands  before  the  door,  the 
worn,  stained  hall  carpet,  or  the  waiter  who 
shuffled  past  him.  He  was  apparently  as 
critically  conscious  of  them  and  of  the  close 
odors  of  the  hall,  and  the  atmosphere  of  list- 
less decay  and  faded  extravagance  around 
him,  as  before  the  interview.  But  if  the 
woman  he  had  just  parted  from  had  watched 
him  she  would  have  supposed  he  still  ut- 
terly disbelieved  her  story.  Yet  he  was 
conscious  that  all  that  he  saw  was  a  part  of 
his  degradation,  for  he  had  believed  every 
word  she  had  uttered.  Through  all  her  ex- 
travagance, envy,  and  revengefulness  he  saw 
the  central  truth  —  that  he  had  been  de- 
ceived—  not  by  his  wife,  but  by  himself! 
He  had  suspected  all  this  before.  This  was 
what  had  been  really  troubling  him  —  this 
was  what  he  had  put  aside,  rather  than  his 
faith,  not  in  her,  but  in  his  ideal.  He  re- 
membered letters  that  had  passed  between 
her  and  Captain  Pinckney  —  letters  that  she 
had  openly  sent  to  notorious  Southern  lead- 
ers; her  nervous  anxiety  to  remain  at  the 
Rancho;  the  innuendoes  and  significant 
glances  of  friends  which  he  had  put  aside  — 
as  he  had  this  woman's  message!    Susy  had 


20  CLARENCE. 

told  him  nothing  new  of  his  wife  —  but  the 
truth  of  himself'/  And  the  revelation  came 
from  people  who  he  was  conscious  were  the, 
inferiors  of  himself  and  his  wife.  To  an 
independent,  proud,  and  self-made  man  it 
was  the  culminating  stroke. 

In  the  same  abstracted  voice  he  told 
the  coachman  to  drive  home.  The  return 
seemed  interminable  —  though  he  never 
shifted  his  position.  Yet  when  he  drew  up 
at  his  own  door  and  looked  at  his  watch  he 
found  he  had  been  absent  only  half  an  hour. 
Only  half  an  hour!  As  he  entered  the 
house  he  turned  with  the  same  abstraction 
towards  a  mirror  in  the  hall,  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  see  some  outward  and  visible 
change  in  himself  in  that  time.  Dismissing 
his  servants  to  bed,  he  went  into  his  dress- 
ing-room, completely  changed  his  attire,  put 
on  a  pair  of  long  riding-boots,  and  throw- 
ing a  serape  over  his  shoulders,  paused  a 
moment,  took  a  pair  of  small  "Derringer" 
pistols  from  a  box,  put  them  in  his  pockets, 
and  then  slijjped  cautiously  down  the  stair- 
case. A  lack  of  confidence  in  his  own  do- 
mestics had  invaded  him  for  the  first  time. 
The  lights  were  out.  He  silently  opened 
the  door  and  was  in  the  street. 


CLARENCE.  21 

He  walked  hastily  a  few  squares  to  a 
livery  stable  wliose  proprietor  he  knew. 
His  first  inquiry  was  for  one  "Redskin,"  a 
particular  horse ;  the  second  for  its  proprie- 
tor. Happily  both  were  in.  The  proprie- 
tor asked  no  question  of  a  customer  of  Clar- 
ence's condition.  The  horse,  half  Spanish, 
powerful  and  irascible,  was  quickly  saddled. 
As  Clarence  mounted,  the  man  in  an  im- 
pulse of  sociability  said, — 

"Saw  you  at  the  theatre  to-night,  sir." 

"Ah,"  returned  Clarence,  quietly  gather- 
ing up  the  reins. 

"Rather  a  smart  trick  of  that  woman 
with  the  flag,"  he  went  on  tentatively. 
Then,  with  a  possible  doubt  of  his  custom- 
er's politics,  he  added  with  a  forced  smile, 
"I  reckon  it 's  all  party  fuss,  though;  there 
ain't  any  real  danger." 

But  fast  as  Clarence  might  ride  the  words 
lingered  in  his  ears.  He  saw  through  the 
man's  hesitation  ;  he,  too,  had  probably 
heard  that  Clarence  Brant  weakly  sympa- 
thized with  his  wife's  sentiments,  and  dared 
not  speak  fully.  And  he  understood  the 
cowardly  suggestion  that  there  was  "no 
real  danger."  It  had  been  Clarence's  one 
fallacy.     He    had   believed   the  public  ex- 


22  CLARENCE. 

citement  was  only  a  temporary  outbreak 
of  partisan  feeling,  soon  to  subside.  Even 
now  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  less 
doubtful  of  the  integrity  of  the  Union  than 
of  his  own  household.  It  was  not  the  devo- 
tion of  the  patriot,  but  the  indignation  of 
an  outraged  husband,  that  was  spurring  him 
on. 

He  knew  that  if  he  reached  Woodville  by 
five  o'clock  he  could  get  ferried  across  the 
bay  at  the  Embarcadero,  and  catch  the 
down  coach  to  Fair  Plains,  whence  he  could 
ride  to  the  Rancho.  As  the  coach  did  not 
connect  directly  with  San  Francisco,  the 
chance  of  his  surprising  them  was  greater. 
Once  clear  of  the  city  outskirts,  he  bullied 
Redskin  into  irascible  speed,  and  plunged 
into  the  rainy  darkness  of  the  highroad. 
The  way  was  familiar.  For  a  while  he  was 
content  to  feel  the  buffeting,  caused  by  his 
rapid  pace,  of  wind  and  rain  against  his  de- 
pressed head  and  shoulders  in  a  sheer  brutal 
sense  of  opposition  and  power,  or  to  relieve 
his  pent-up  excitement  by  dashing  through 
overflowed  gullies  in  the  road  or  across  the 
quaggy,  sodden  edges  of  meadowland,  until 
he  had  controlled  Redskin's  rebellious  ex- 
travagance into  a  long  steady  stride.     Then 


CLARENCE.  23 

he  raised  his  head  and  straightened  himself 
on  the  saddle,  to  think.  But  to  no  purpose. 
He  had  no  plan;  everything  would  dejjend 
upon  the  situation;  the  thought  of  forestall- 
ing any  action  of  the  conspirators,  by  warn- 
ing or  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  authorities, 
for  an  instant  crossed  his  mind,  but  was  as 
instantly  dismissed.  He  had  but  an  instinct 
—  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  what  his  rea- 
son told  him  was  true.  Day  was  break- 
ing through  drifting  scud  and  pewter-col- 
ored clouds  as  he  reached  Woodville  ferry, 
checkered  with  splashes  of  the  soil  and  the 
spume  of  his  horse,  from  whose  neck  and 
flanks  the  sweat  rolled  like  lather.  Yet  he 
was  not  conscious  how  intent  had  been  his 
l^urpose  until  he  felt  a  sudden  instinctive 
shock  on  seeing  that  the  .  ferryboat  was 
gone.  For  an  instant  his  wonderful  self- 
possession  abandoned  him;  he  could  only 
gaze  vacantly  at  the  leaden-colored  bay, 
without  a  thought  or  expedient.  But  in 
another  moment  he  saw  that  the  boat  was 
returning  from  the  distance.  Had  he  lost 
his  only  chance?  He  glanced  hurriedly  at 
his  watch;  he  had  come  more  quickly  than 
he  imagined;  there  would  still  be  time.  He 
beckoned  impatiently  to  the  ferryman;  the 


24  CLARENCE. 

boat  —  a  ship's  pinnace,  with  two  men  in 
it  —  crept  in  with  exasperating  slowness. 
At  last  the  two  rowers  suddenly  leajied 
ashore. 

"Ye  might  have  come  before,  with  the 
other  passenger.  We  don't  reckon  to  run 
lightnin'  trips  on  this  ferry." 

But  Clarence  was  himself  again.  "  Twenty 
dollars  for  two  more  oars  in  that  boat,"  he 
said  quietly,  "and  fifty  if  you  get  me  over 
in  time  to  catch  the  down  stage." 

The  man  glanced  at  Clarence's  eyes. 
"Run  up  and  rouse  out  Jake  and  Sam,"  he 
said  to  the  other  boatman;  then  more  lei- 
surely, gazing  at  his  customer's  travel- 
stained  equipment,  he  said,  "There  must 
have  been  a  heap  o'  passengers  got  left  by 
last  night's  boat.  You  're  the  second  man 
that  took  this  route  in  a  hurry." 

At  any  other  time  the  coincidence  might 
have  struck  Clarence.  But  he  only  an- 
swered curtly,  "Unless  we  are  under  way 
in  ten  minutes  you  will  find  I  am  not  the 
second  man,  and  that  our  bargain  's  off." 

But  here  two  men  emerged  from  the 
shanty  beside  the  ferryhouse,  and  tumbled 
sleepily  into  the  boat.  Clarence  seized  an 
extra    pair    of    sculls    that    were    standing 


CLARENCE.  25 

against  the  slied,  and  threw  them  into  the 
stern.  "I  don't  mind  taking-  a  hand  my- 
self for  exercise,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  ferryman  glanced  again  at  Clarence's 
travel-worn  figure  and  determined  eyes  with 
mingled  approval  and  surprise.  He  lin- 
gered a  moment  with  his  oars  lifted,  looking 
at  his  passenger.  "It  ain't  no  business 
o'  mine,  young  man,"  he  said  deliberately, 
"but  I  reckon  you  understand  me  when  I 
say  that  I  've  just  taken  another  man  over 
there." 

"I  do,"  said  Clarence  impatiently. 

"And  you  still  want  to  go?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  Clarence,  with  a  cold 
stare,  taking  up  his  oars. 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  bent 
himself  for  the  stroke,  and  the  boat  sprung 
forward.  The  others  rowed  strongly  and 
rapidly,  the  tough  ashen  blades  springing 
like  steel  from  the  water,  the  heavy  boat 
seeming  to  leap  in  successive  bounds  until 
they  were  fairly  beyond  the  curving  inshore 
current  and  clearing  the  placid,  misty  sur- 
face of  the  bay,  Clarence  did  not  speak, 
but  bent  abstractedly  over  his  oar ;  the  ferry- 
man and  his  crew  rowed  in  equal  panting 
silence ;  a  few  startled  ducks  whirred  before 


26  CLARENCE. 

tliem,  but  dropped  again  to  rest.  In  lialf 
an  hour  they  were  at  the  Embarcadero. 
The  time  was  fairly  up.  Clarence's  eyes 
were  eagerly  bent  for  the  first  appearance 
of  the  stage-coach  around  the  little  promon- 
tory; the  ferryman  was  as  eagei-ly  scanning 
the  bare,  empty  street  of  the  still  sleeping 
settlement. 

"I  don't  see  him  anywhere,"  said  the 
ferryman  with  a  glance,  half  of  astonish- 
ment and  half  of  curiosity,  at  his  solitary 
passenger. 

"See  whom?"  asked  Clarence  carelessly, 
as  he  handed  the  man  his  promised  fee. 

"The  other  man  I  ferried  over  to  catch 
the  stage.  He  must  have  gone  on  without 
waiting.     You  're  in  luck,  young  fellow!  " 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Clar- 
ence impatiently.  "  What  has  your  previ- 
ous passenger  to  do  with  me?  " 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  know  best.  He's 
the  kind  of  man,  gin 'rally  speaking,  that 
other  men,  in  a  pow'ful  hurry,  don't  care 
to  meet  —  and,  az  a  rule,  don't /b/Zer  arter. 
It 's  gin 'rally  the  other  way." 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  inquired  Clarence 
sternly.      "Of  whom  are  you  speaking?  " 

"The  Chief  of  Police  of  San  Francisco! " 


CHAPTEE  II. 

The  laugh  that  instinctively  broke  from 
Clarence's  lips  was  so  sincere  and  unaf- 
fected that  the  man  was  disconcerted,  and 
at  last  joined  in  it,  a  little  shamefacedly. 
The  grotesqvie  blunder  of  being  taken  as 
a  fugitive  from  justice  relieved  Clarence's 
mind  from  its  acute  tension, —  he  was  mo- 
mentarily diverted, —  and  it  was  not  until 
the  boatman  had  departed,  and  he  was  again 
alone,  that  it  seemed  to  have  any  collateral 
significance.  Then  an  uneasy  recollection 
of  Susy's  threat  that  she  had  the  power  to 
put  his  wife  in  Fort  Alcatraz  came  across 
him.  Could  she  have  already  warned  the 
municipal  authorities  and  this  man?  But 
he  quickly  remembered  that  any  action  from 
such  a  warning  could  only  have  been  taken 
by  the  United  States  Marshal,  and  not  by  a 
civic  official,  and  dismissed  the  idea. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  stage  with  its  half- 
spent  lamps  still  burning  dimly  against  the 
morning    light  swept   round  the  curve  and 


28  CLARENCE. 

rolled  heavily  up  to  the  rude  shanty  which 
served  as  coach-office,  he  became  watchful. 
A  single  yawning  individual  in  its  doorway 
received  a  few  letters  and  parcels,  but 
Clarence  was  evidently  the  only  waiting 
passenger.  Any  hope  that  he  might  have 
entertained  that  his  mysterious  predecessor 
would  emerge  from  some  seclusion  at  that 
moment  was  disappointed.  As  he  entered 
the  coach  he  made  a  rapid  survey  of  his 
fellow-travelers,  but  satisfied  himself  that 
the  stranger  was  not  among  them.  They 
were  mainly  small  traders  or  farmers,  a 
miner  or  two,  and  apparently  a  Spanish- 
American  of  better  degree  and  jDcrsonality. 
Possibly  the  circumstance  that  men  of  this 
class  usually  preferred  to  travel  on  horse- 
back and  were  rarely  seen  in  public  convey- 
ances attracted  his  attention,  and  their  eyes 
met  more  than  once  in  mutual  curiosity. 
Presently  Clarence  addressed  a  remark  to 
the  stranger  in  Spanish;  he  replied  fluently 
and  courteously,  but  at  the  next  stopping- 
place  he  asked  a  question  of  the  expressman 
in  an  unmistakable  Missouri  accent.  Clar- 
ence's curiosity  was  satisfied;  he  was  evi- 
dently one  of  those  early  American  settlers 
who  had  been  so  long  domiciled  in  Southern 


CLARENCE.  29 

California  as  to  adopt  the  speech  as  well  as 
the  habiliments  of  the  Spaniard. 

The  conversation  fell  upon  the  political 
news  of  the  previous  night,  or  rather  seemed 
to  be  lazily  continued  from  some  previous, 
more  excited  discussion,  in  which  one  of  the 
contestants  —  a  red-bearded  miner  —  had 
subsided  into  an  occasional  growl  of  surly 
dissent.  It  struck  Clarence  that  the  Mis- 
sourian  had  been  an  amused  auditor  and 
even,  judging  from  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  a 
mischievous  instigator  of  the  controversy. 
He  was  not  surprised,  therefore,  when  the 
man  turned  to  him  with  a  certain  courtesy 
and  said, — 

"And  what,  sir,  is  the  political  feeling 
in  your  district?" 

But  Clarence  was  in  no  mood  to  be  drawn 
out,  and  replied,  almost  curtly,  that  as  he  had 
come  only  from  San  Francisco,  they  were 
probably  as  well  informed  on  that  subject 
as  himself.  A  quick  and  searching  glance 
from  the  stranger's  eye  made  him  regret  his 
answer,  but  in  the  silence  that  ensued  the 
red-bearded  miner,  evidently  still  ranlding 
at  heart,  saw  his  opportunity.  Slapping  his 
huge  hands  on  his  knees,  and  leaning  far 
forward  until  he  seemed  to  plunge  his  flam- 


so  CLARENCE. 

ing  beard,  like  a  firebrand,  into  the  contro- 
versy, lie  said  grimly, — 

"Well,  I  kin  tell  you,  gen'l'men,  this. 
It  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  matter  wot 's  the  j)0- 
litical  feeling  here  or  thar  —  it  ain't  goin'  to 
be  no  matter  wot 's  the  State's  rights  and 
wot 's  Fed'ral  rights  —  it  ain't  goin'  to  be 
no  question  whether  the  gov'ment  's  got  the 
right  to  relieve  its  own  soldiers  that  those 
Secesh  is  besieging  in  Fort  Sumter  or 
whether  they  haven't  —  but  the  first  gun 
that 's  fired  at  the  flag  blows  the  chains  off 

every    d n  nigger  south  of   Mason  and 

Dixon's  line!  You  hear  me!  I 'm  shout- 
in'  !  And  whether  you  call  yourselves  'Se- 
cesh '  or  'Union  '  or  'Copperhead  '  or  'Peace 
men,'  you  've  got  to  face  it!  " 

There  was  an  angry  start  in  one  or  two 
of  the  seats ;  one  man  caught  at  the  swing- 
ing side-strap  and  half  rose,  a  husky  voice 

began,  "It 's  a  d d  "  —  and  then  all  as 

suddenly  subsided.  Every  eye  was  turned 
to  an  insignificant  figure  in  the  back  seat. 
It  was  a  woman,  holding  a  child  on  her 
lap,  and  gazing  out  of  the  window  with  her 
sex's  profound  unconcern  in  politics.  Clar- 
ence understood  the  rude  chivalry  of  the 
road  well  enough  to  comprehend  that  this 


CLARENCE.  31 

unconscious  but  omnipotent  figure  had  more 
than  once  that  day  controlled  the  passions  of 
the  disputants.  They  dropped  back  weakly 
to  their  seats,  and  their  mutterings  rolled 
off  in  the  rattle  of  the  wheels.  Clarence 
glanced  at  the  Missourian ;  he  was  regard- 
ing the  red-bearded  miner  with  a  singular 
curiosity. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  afternoon 
shadows  were  deepening  when  they  at  last 
reached  Fair  Plains,  where  Clarence  ex- 
pected to  take  horse  to  the  Rancho.  He 
was  astonished,  however,  to  learn  that  all 
the  horses  in  the  stable  were  engaged,  but 
remembering  that  some  of  his  own  stock 
were  in  pasturage  with  a  tenant  at  Fair 
Plains,  and  that  he  should  probably  have  a 
better  selection,  he  turned  his  steps  thither. 
Passing  out  of  the  stable-yard  he  recognized 
the  Missourian 's  voice  in  whispered  conver- 
sation with  the  proprietor,  but  the  two  men 
withdrew  into  the  shadow  as  he  approached. 
An  ill-defined  uneasiness  came  over  him ;  he 
knew  the  proprietor,  who  also  seemed  to 
know  the  Missourian,  and  this  evident  avoid- 
ance of  him  was  significant.  Perhaps  his 
reputation  as  a  doubtful  Unionist  had  pre- 
ceded him,  but  this  would  not  account  for 


32  CLARENCE. 

their  conduct  in  a  district  so  strongly  South- 
ern in  sympathy  as  Fair  Plains.  More  im- 
pressed by  the  occurrence  than  he  cared  to 
admit,  when  at  last,  after  some  delay,  he 
had  secured  his  horse,  and  was  once  more  in 
the  saddle,  he  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  his 
quondam  companion.  But  here  another 
circumstance  added  to  his  suspicions  :  there 
was  a  main  road  leading  to  Santa  Inez,  the 
next  town,  and  the  Rancho,  and  this  Clar- 
ence had  purposely  taken  in  order  to  watch 
the  Missourian;  but  there  was  also  a  cut- 
off directly  to  the  Rancho,  known  only  to 
the  habitues  of  the  Rancho.  After  a  few 
moments'  rapid  riding  on  a  mustang  much 
superior  to  any  in  the  hotel  stables,  he  was 
satisfied  that  the  stranger  must  have  taken 
the  cut-off.  Putting  spurs  to  his  horse  he 
trusted  still  to  precede  him  to  the  Rancho 
—  if  that  were  his  destination. 

As  he  dashed  along  the  familiar  road,  by 
a  strange  perversity  of  fancy,  instead  of 
thinking  of  his  purpose,  he  found  himself 
recalling  the  first  time  he  had  ridden  that 
way  in  the  flush  of  his  youth  and  hopeful- 
ness. The  girl-sweetheart  he  was  then  go- 
ing to  rejoin  was  now  the  wife  of  another; 
the  woman  who  had  been  her  guardian  was 


CLARENCE.  33 

now  liis  own  wife.  He  had  accepted  with- 
out a  pang  the  young  girl's  dereliction,  but 
it  was  through  her  revelation  that  he  was 
now  about  to  confront  the  dereliction  of  his 
own  wife.  And  this  was  the  reward  of  his 
youthful  trust  and  loyalty !  A  bitter  laugh 
broke  from  his  lips.  It  was  part  of  his  still 
youthful  self-delusion  that  he  believed  him- 
self wiser  and  stronger  for  it. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  reached  the 
upper  field  or  first  terrace  of  the  Rancho. 
He  could  see  the  white  walls  of  the  casa 
rising  dimly  out  of  the  green  sea  of  early 
wild  grasses,  like  a  phantom  island.  It  was 
here  that  the  cut-off  joined  the  main  road  — 
now  the  only  one  that  led  to  the  casa.  He 
was  satisfied  that  no  one  could  have  pre- 
ceded him  from  Fair  Plains;  but  it  was 
true  that  he  must  take  precautions  against 
his  own  discovery.  Dismounting  near  a 
clump  of  willows,  he  unsaddled  and  un- 
bridled his  horse,  and  with  a  cut  of  the  riata 
over  its  haunches  sent  it  flying  across  the 
field  in  the  direction  of  a  band  of  feeding 
mustangs,  which  it  presently  joined.  Then, 
keeping  well  in  the  shadow  of  a  belt  of 
shrub-oaks,  he  skirted  the  long  lesser  ter- 
races of  the  casa,  intending  to  approach  the 


34  CLARENCE. 

house  by  way  of  the  old  garden  and  corral. 
A  drizzling  rain,  occasionally  driven  by  the 
wind  into  long,  misty,  curtain-like  waves, 
obscured  the  prospect  and  favored  his  de- 
sign. He  reached  the  low  adobe  wall  of  the 
corral  in  safety;  looking  over  he  could  de- 
tect, in  spite  of  the  darkness,  that  a  number 
of  the  horses  were  of  alien  brands,  and  even 
recognized  one  or  two  from  the  Santa  Inez 
district.  The  vague  outline  of  buggies  and 
carryalls  filled  the  long  shed  beside  the  sta- 
bles. There  was  company  at  the  casa  —  so 
far  Susy  was  right ! 

Nevertheless,  lingering  still  by  the  wall 
of  the  old  garden  for  the  deepening  of 
night,  his  nervoixs  feverishness  was  again 
invaded  and  benumbed  by  sullen  memories. 
There  was  the  opening  left  by  the  old  grille 
in  the  wall,  behind  which  Mrs.  Peyton  stood 
on  the  morning  when  he  thought  he  was 
leaving  the  ranch  forever;  where  he  had 
first  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  stayed. 
A  turn  of  the  head,  a  moment's  indecision, 
a  single  glance  of  a  languorous  eye,  had 
brought  this  culmination.  And  now  he 
stood  again  before  that  ruined  grille,  his 
house  and  lands,  even  his  name^  misused  by 
a  mad,  scheming  enthusiast,  and  himself  a 


CLARENCE.  35 

creeping  spy  of  his  own  dishonor!  He 
turned  with\a  bitter  smile  again  to  the  gar- 
den. A  few  dark  red  Castilian  roses  still 
leaned  forward  and  swayed  in  the  wind  with 
dripping  leaves.  It  was  here  that  the  first 
morning  of  his  arrival  he  had  kissed  Susy ; 
the  perfume  and  color  of  her  pink  skin  came 
back  to  him  with  a  sudden  shock  as  he  stood 
there;  he  caught  at  a  flower,  drew  it  to- 
wards him,  inhaled  its  odor  in  a  long  breath 
that  left  him  faint  and  leaning  against  the 
wall.  Then  again  he  smiled,  but  this  time 
more  wickedly  —  in  what  he  believed  his 
cynicism  had  sprung  up  the  first  instinct  of 
revenge ! 

It  was  now  dark  enough  for  him  to  ven- 
tux'e  across  the  carriage  road  and  make  his 
way  to  the  rear  of  the  house.  His  first 
characteristic  instinct  had  been  to  enter 
openly  at  his  own  front  gate,  but  tlie  terri- 
ble temptation  to  overhear  and  watch  the 
conspiracy  unobserved  —  that  fascination 
common  to  deceived  humanity  to  witness  its 
own  shame  —  had  now  grown  upon  him. 
He  knew  that  a  word  or  gesture  of  explana- 
tion, apology,  appeal,  or  even  terror  from 
his  wife  would  check  his  rage  and  weaken 
his  purpose.      His  perfect  knowledge  of  the 


36  CLARENCE. 

house  and  the  security  of  its  inmates  would 
enable  him  from  some  obscure  landing  or 
gallery  to  participate  in  any  secret  conclave 
they  might  hold  in  the  patio  —  the  only 
place  suitable  for  so  numerous  a  rendezvous. 
The  absence  of  light  in  the  few  external 
windows  pointed  to  this  central  gathering. 
And  he  had  already  conceived  his  plan  of 
entrance. 

Gaining  the  rear  wall  of  the  casa  he  be- 
gan cautiously  to  skirt  its  brambly  base 
until  he  had  reached  a  long,  oven -like  win- 
dow half  obliterated  by  a  monstrous  passion 
vine.  It  was  the  window  of  what  had  once 
been  Mrs.  Peyton's  boudoir;  the  window  by 
which  he  had  once  forced  an  entrance  to 
the  house  when  it  was  in  the  hands  of  squat- 
ters, the  window  from  which  Susy  had  sig- 
naled her  Spanish  lover,  the  window  whose 
grating  had  broken  the  neck  of  Judge  Pey- 
ton's presumed  assassin.  But  these  recol- 
lections no  longer  delayed  him;  the  moment 
for  action  had  arrived.  He  knew  that  since 
the  tragedy  the  boudoir  had  been  disman- 
tled and  shunned;  the  servants  believed  it 
to  be  haunted  by  the  assassin's  ghost.  With 
the  aid  of  the  passion  vine  the  ingress  was 
easy;    the    interior  window  was  open;    the 


CLARENCE.  37 

rustle  of  dead  leaves  on  the  bare  floor  as  he 
entered,  and  the  whir  of  a  frightened  bird 
by  his  ear,  told  the  story  of  its  desolation 
and  the  source  of  the  strange  noises  that 
had  been  heard  there.  The  door  leading  to 
the  corridor  was  lightly  bolted,  merely  to 
keep  it  from  rattling  in  the  wind.  Slipping 
the  bolt  with  the  blade  of  his  pocket-knife 
he  peered  into  the  dark  passage.  The  light 
streaming  under  a  door  to  the  left,  and  the 
sound  of  voices,  convinced  him  that  his 
conjecture  was  right,  and  the  meeting  was 
gathered  on  the  broad  balconies  around  the 
patio.  He  knew  that  a  narrow  gallery, 
faced  with  Venetian  blinds  to  exclude  the 
sun,  looked  down  upon  them.  He  managed 
to  gain  it  without  discovery;  luckily  the 
blinds  were  still  down;  between  their  slats, 
himself  invisible,  he  could  hear  -and  see 
everything  that  occurred. 

Yet  even  at  this  supreme  moment  the  first 
thing  that  struck  him  was  the  almost  ludi- 
crous contrast  between  the  appearance  of  the 
meeting  and  its  tremendous  object.  Whe- 
ther he  was  influenced  by  any  previous  boy- 
ish conception  of  a  clouded  and  gloomy  con- 
spiracy he  did  not  know,  but  he  was  for  an 
instant  almost  disconcerted  by  the  apparent 


38  CLARENCE. 

levity  and  festivity  of  the  conclave.  De- 
canters and  glasses  stood  on  small  tables 
before  them ;  nearly  all  were  drinking  and 
smoking.  They  comprised  fifteen  or  twenty 
men,  some  of  whose  faces  were  familiar  to 
Mm  elsewhere  as  Southern  politicians;  a 
few,  he  was  shocked  to  see,  were  well-known 
Northern  Democrats.  Occupying  a  charac- 
teristically central  position  was  the  famous 
Colonel  Starbottle,  of  Virginia.  Jaunty 
and  youthful  -  looking  in  his  mask  -  like, 
beardless  face,  expansive  and  dignified  in  his 
middle  -  aged  port  and  carriage,  he  alone 
retained  some  of  the  importance  —  albeit 
slightly  theatrical  and  affected  —  of  the  oc- 
casion. Clarence  in  his  first  hurried  glance 
had  not  observed  his  wife,  and  for  a  moment 
had  felt  relieved;  but  as  Colonel  Starbot- 
tle arose  at  that  moment,  and  with  a  studi- 
ously chivalrous  and  courtly  manner  turned 
to  his  right,  he  saw  that  she  was  sitting  at 
the  further  end  of  the  balcony,  and  that  a 
man  whom  he  recognized  as  Captain  Pinck- 
ney  was  standing  beside  her.  The  blood 
quickly  tightened  around  his  heart,  but  left 
him  cold  and  observant. 

"It  was  seldom,  indeed,"  remarked  Col- 
onel Starbottle,   placing   his  fat   fingers  in 


CLARENCE.  39 

tlie  frill  of  his  shirt  front,  "that  a  move- 
ment like  this  was  graced  with  the  actual 
presence  of  a  lofty,  mspiring,  yet  delicate 
spirit  —  a  Boadicea  —  indeed,  he  might  say 
a  Joan  of  Arc  —  in  the  person  of  their 
charming  hostess,  Mrs.  Brant.  Not  only 
were  they  favored  by  her  social  and  hospi- 
table ministration,  but  by  her  active  and  en- 
thusiastic cooperation  in  the  glorious  work 
they  had  in  hand.  It  was  through  her  cor- 
respondence and  earnest  advocacy  that  they 
were  to  be  favored  to-night  with  the  aid 
and  counsel  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
and  powerful  men  in  the  Southern  district 
of  California,  Judge  Beeswinger,  of  Los 
Angeles.  He  had  not  the  honor  of  that 
gentleman's  personal  acquaintance;  he  be- 
lieved he  was  not  far  wrong  in  saying  that 
this  was  also  the  misfortune  of  every'  gentle- 
man present;  but  the  name  itself  was  a 
tower  of  strength.  He  would  go  further, 
and  say  that  Mrs.  Brant  herself  was  per- 
sonally unacquainted  with  him,  but  it  was 
through  the  fervor,  poetry,  grace,  and  gen- 
ius of  her  correspondence  with  that  gentle- 
man that  they  were  to  have  the  honor  of  his 
presence  that  very  evening.  It  was  under- 
stood that  advices  had  been  received  of  his 


40  CLARENCE. 

departure,  and  that  he  might  be  expected  at 
Robles  at  any  moment." 

"But  what  proof  have  we  of  Judge  Bees- 
winger's  soundness?"  said  a  lazy  Southern 
voice  at  the  conchision  of  Colonel  Starbot- 
tle's  periods.  "Nobody  here  seems  to  know 
him  by  sight :  is  it  not  risky  to  admit  a  man 
to  our  meeting  whom  we  are  unable  to  iden- 
tify?" 

"  I  reckon  nobody  but  a  fool  or  some  pry- 
ing mudsill  of  a  Yankee  would  trust  his  skin 
here, "  returned  another ;  "  and  if  he  did  we  'd 
know  what  to  do  with  him." 

But  Clarence's  attention  was  riveted  on 
his  wife,  and  the  significant  speech  passed 
him  as  unheeded  as  had  the  colonel's  rhet- 
oric. She  was  looking  very  handsome  and 
slightly  flushed,  with  a  proud  light  in  her 
eyes  that  he  had  never  seen  before.  Ab- 
sorbed in  the  discussion,  she  seemed  to  be 
paying  little  attention  to  Captain  Pinckney 
as  she  rose  suddenly  to  her  feet. 

"Judge  Beeswinger  will  be  attended  here 
by  Mr.  MacNiel,  of  the  Fair  Plains  Hotel, 
who  will  vouch  for  him  and  introduce  him," 
she  said  in  a  clear  voice,  which  rang  with 
an  imperiousness  that  Clarence  well  remem- 
bered.     "The  judge  was  to  arrive  by  the 


CLARENCE.  41 

coach  from  Martinez  to  Fair  Plains,  and  is 
due  now." 

"  Is  there  no  gentleman  to  introduce  him  ? 
Must  we  take  him  on  the  word  of  a  common 
trader  —  by  Jove!  a  whiskey-seller?"  con- 
tinued the  previous  voice  sneeringiy. 

"On  the  word  of  a  lady,  Mr.  Brooks," 
said  Captain  Pinckney,  with  a  slight  ges- 
ture towards  Mrs.  Brant  —  "who  answers 
for  both." 

Clarence  had  started  slightly  at  his  wife's 
voice  and  the  information  it  conveyed.  His 
fellow-passenger,  and  the  confidant  of  Mac- 
Niel,  was  the  man  they  were  expecting !  If 
they  had  recognized  him,  Clarence,  would 
they  not  warn  the  company  of  his  proxim- 
ity? He  held  his  breath  as  the  sound  of 
voices  came  from  the  outer  gate  of  the  court- 
yard. Mrs.  Brant  rose;  at  the  same  moment 
the  gate  swung  open,  and  a  man  entered.  It 
was  the  Missourian. 

He  turned  with  old-fashioned  courtesy  to 
the  single  woman  standing  on  the  balcony. 

"  My  fair  corresjjondent,  I  believe !  I  am 
Judge  Beeswinger.  Your  agent,  MacNiel, 
passed  me  through  your  guards  at  the  gate, 
but  I  did  not  deem  it  advisable  to  bring 
him  into  this  assembly  of  gentlemen  with- 


42  CLARENCE. 

out  your  further  consideration.  I  trust  I 
was  right." 

The  quiet  dignity  and  self-possession,  the 
quaint,  old-fashioned  colonial  precision  of 
speech,  modified  by  a  soft  Virginian  into- 
nation, and,  above  all,  some  singular  indi- 
viduality of  the  man  himself,  produced  a 
profound  sensation,  and  seemed  to  suddenly 
give  the  gathering  an  impressiveness  it  had 
lacked  before.  For  an  instant  Clarence  for- 
got himself  and  his  personal  wrongs  in  the 
shock  of  indignation  he  felt  at  this  potent 
addition  to  the  ranks  of  his  enemies.  He 
saw  his  wife's  eyes  sparkle  with  pride  over 
her  acquisition,  and  noticed  that  Pinckney 
cast  a  disturbed  glance  at  the  newcomer. 

The  stranger  ascended  the  few  steps  to 
the  balcony  and  took  Mrs.  Brant's  hand 
with  profound  courtesy.  "Introduce  me  to 
my  colleagues  —  distinctly  and  separately. 
It  behooves  a  man  at  such  a  moment  to  know 
to  whom  he  entrusts  his  life  and  honor,  and 
the  life  and  honor  of  his  cause." 

It  was  evidently  no  mere  formal  courtesy 
to  the  stranger.  As  he  stepped  forward 
along  the  balcony,  and  under  Mrs.  Brant's 
graceful  guidance  was  introduced  to  each 
of  the  members,  he  not  only  listened  with 


CLARENCE.  43 

scrupulous  care  and  attention  to  the  name 
and  profession  of  each  man,  but  bent  upon 
him  a  clear,  searching  glance  that  seemed  to 
photograph  him  in  his  memory.  With  two 
exceptions.  He  passed  Colonel  Starbottle's 
expanding  shirt  frill  with  a  bow  of  elaborate 
precision,  and  said,  "Colonel  Starbottle's 
fame  requires  neither  introduction  nor  ex- 
jDlanation."  He  stopped  before  Captain 
Pinckney  and  paused. 

"An  officer  of  the  United  States  army,  I 
believe,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"  Educated  at  West  Point,  I  think,  by  the 
government,  to  whom  you  have  taken  the 
oath  of  allegiance  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  turn- 
ing away. 

"You  have  forgotten  one  other  fact,  sir," 
said  Pinckney,  with  a  slightly  supercilious 
air. 

"Indeed!     What  is  it?" 

"I  am,  first  of  all,  a  native  of  the  State 
of  South  Carolina!  " 

A  murmur  of  applause  and  approval 
ran  round  the  balcony.  Captain  Pinckney 
smiled  and   exchang-ed  alances    with   Mrs. 


44  CLARENCE. 

Brant,  but  the  stranger  quietly  returned  to 
the  central  table  beside  Colonel  Starbottle. 
"I  am  not  only  an  unexpected  delegate  to 
this  august  assembly,  gentlemen,"  he  began 
gravely,  "but  I  am  the  bearer  of  perhaps 
equally  unexpected  news.  By  my  position 
in  the  Southern  district  I  am  in  possession 
of  dispatches  received  only  this  morning  by 
pony  express.  Fort  Sumter  has  been  be- 
sieged. The  United  States  flag,  carrying 
relief  to  the  beleaguered  garrison,  has  been 
fired  upon  by  the  State  of  South  Carolina." 
A  burst  of  almost  hysteric  applause  and 
enthusiasm  broke  from  the  assembly,  and 
made  the  dim,  vault-like  passages  and  cor- 
ridors of  the  casa  ring.  Cheer  after  cheer 
went  up  to  the  veiled  gallery  and  the  misty 
sky  beyond.  Men  mounted  on  the  tables 
and  waved  their  hands  frantically,  and  in 
the  midst  of  this  bewildering  turbulence  of 
sound  and  motion  Clarence  saw  his  wife 
mounted  on  a  chair,  with  burning  cheeks 
and  flashing  eyes,  waving  her  handkerchief 
like  an  inspired  priestess.  Only  the  stran- 
ger, still  standing  beside  Colonel  Starbottle, 
remained  unmoved  and  impassive.  Then, 
with  an  imperative  gesture,  he  demanded  a 
sudden  silence. 


CLARENCE.  45 

**  Convincing  and  unanimous  as  tliis 
demonstration  is,  gentlemen,"  he  began 
quietly,  "it  is  my  duty,  nevertheless,  to  ask 
you  if  you  have  seriously  considered  the 
meaning  of  the  news  I  have  brought.  It  is 
my  duty  to  tell  you  that  it  means  civil  war. 
It  means  the  clash  of  arms  between  two  sec- 
tions of  a  mighty  country;  it  means  the  dis- 
ruption of  friends,  the  breaking  of  family 
ties,  the  separation  of  fathers  and  sons,  of 
brothers  and  sisters  —  even,  perhaps,  to  the 
disseverment  of  husband  and  wife!  " 

"It  means  the  sovereignty  of  the  South 
—  and  the  breaking  of  a  covenant  with  low- 
born traders  and  abolitionists,"  said  Cap- 
tain Pinckney, 

"If  there  are  any  gentlemen  present," 
continued  the  stranger,  without  heeding  the 
interruption,  "who  have  pledged  this  State 
to  the  support  of  the  South  in  this  emer- 
gency, or  to  the  establishment  of  a  Pacific 
republic  in  aid  and  sympathy  with  it,  whose 
names  are  on  this  paper "  —  he  lifted  a 
sheet  of  paper  lying  before  Colonel  Star- 
bottle —  "but  who  now  feel  that  the  gravity 
of  the  news  demands  a  more  serious  consid- 
eration of  the  purpose,  they  are  at  liberty 
to  withdraw  from  the  meeting,  giving  their 


46  CLARENCE. 

honor,  as  Southern  gentlemen,  to  keep  the 
secret  intact." 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  interrupted  a  stal- 
wart Kentuckian,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
strode  down  the  steps  to  the  patio.  "For," 
he  added,  placing  his  back  against  the  gate- 
way, "  I  '11  shoot  the  first  coward  that  backs 
out  now." 

A  roar  of  laughter  and  approval  followed, 
but  was  silenced  again  by  the  quiet,  unim- 
passioned  voice  of  the  stranger.  "If,  on 
the  other  hand,"  he  went  on  calmly,  "you 
all  feel  that  this  news  is  the  fitting  culmina- 
tion and  consecration  of  the  hopes,  wishes, 
and  plans  of  this  meeting,  you  will  assert  it 
again,  over  your  own  signatures,  to  Colonel 
Starbottle  at  this  table." 

When  the  Kentuckian  had  risen,  Clar- 
ence had  started  from  his  concealment; 
when  he  now  saw  the  eager  figures  pressing 
forward  to  the  table  he  hesitated  no  longer. 
Slipping  along  the  passage,  he  reached  the 
staircase  which  led  to  the  corridor  in  the 
rear  of  the  balcony.  Descending  this  rap- 
idly, he  not  only  came  upon  the  backs  of 
the  excited  crowd  around  the  table,  but  even 
elbowed  one  of  the  conspirators  aside  with- 
out being  noticed.     His  wife,  who  had  risen 


CLARENCE.  47 

from  her  chair  at  the  end  of  the  balcony, 
was  already  moving  towards  the  table. 
With  a  quick  movement  he  seized  her  wrist, 
and  threw  her  back  in  the  chair  again.  A 
cry  broke  from  her  lips  as  she  recognized 
him,  but  still  holding  her  wrist,  he  stepped 
quickly  between  her  and  the  astonished 
crowd.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence, 
then  the  cry  of  "Spy!  "  and  "Seize  him!  " 
rose  quickly,  but  above  all  the  voice  and 
figure  of  the  Missourian  was  heard  com- 
manding them  to  stand  back.  Turning  to 
Clarence,  he  said  quietly, — 

"I  should  know  your  face,  sir.  Who  are 
you?" 

"  The  husband  of  this  woman  and  the  mas- 
ter of  this  house,"  said  Clarence  as  quietly, 
but  in  a  voice  he  hardly  recognized  as  his 
own. 

"  Stand  aside  from  her,  then  —  unless  you 
are  hoping  that  her  danger  may  protect 
you !  "  said  the  Kentuckian,  significantly 
drawing  his  revolver. 

But  Mrs.  Brant  sprang  suddenly  to  her 
feet  beside  Clarence. 

"We  are  neither  of  us  cowards,  Mr. 
Brooks  —  though  he  speaks  the  truth  —  and 
—  more  shame  to  me"  —  she  added,  with  a 


48  CLARENCE. 

look  of  savage  scorn  at  Clarence  —  "is  my 
husband  !  " 

"What  is  your  purpose  in  coming  here?  " 
continued  Judge  Beeswinger,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Clarence. 

"I  have  given  you  all  the  information," 
said  Clarence  quietly,  "that  is  necessary  to 
make  you,  as  a  gentleman,  leave  this  house 
at  once  —  and  that  is  my  purpose.  It  is 
all  the  information  you  will  get  from  me 
as  long  as  you  and  your  friends  insult  my 
roof  with  your  uninvited  presence.  What 
I  may  have  to  say  to  you  and  each  of  you 
hereafter  —  what  I  may  choose  to  demand  of 
you,  according  to  your  own  code  of  honor," 

—  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Captain  Pinckney's, 

—  "is  another  question,  and  one  not  usually 
discussed  before  a  lady." 

"Pardon  me.  A  moment  —  a  single  mo- 
ment." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Colonel  Starbottle;  it 
was  the  frilled  shirt  front,  the  lightly  but- 
toned blue  coat  with  its  expanding  lapels, 
like  bursting  petals,  and  the  smiling  mask 
of  that  gentleman  rising  above  the  table  and 
bowing  to  Clarence  Brant  and  his  wife  with 
infinite  courtesy.  "  The  —  er  —  humiliating 
situation  in  which  we  find  ourselves,  gentle- 


CLARENCE.  49 

men, —  the  reluctant  witnesses  of  —  er  — 
what  we  trust  is  only  a  temporary  disagree- 
ment between  our  charming  hostess  and  the 
—  er  —  gentleman  whom  she  recognized  un- 
der the  highest  title  to  our  consideration,  — 
is  distressing  to  us  all,  and  would  seem  to 
amply  justify  that  gentleman's  claims  to 
a  personal  satisfaction,  which  I  know  we 
would  all  delight  to  give.  But  that  situa- 
tion rests  upon  the  supposition  that  our 
gathering  here  was  of  a  purely  social  or  fes- 
tive nature!  It  may  be,"  continued  the 
colonel  with  a  blandly  reflective  air,  "that 
the  spectacle  of  these  decanters  and  glasses, 
and  the  nectar  furnished  us  by  our  Hebe-like 
hostess  "  (he  lifted  a  glass  of  whiskey  and 
water  to  his  lips  while  he  bowed  to  Mrs. 
Brant  gracefully),  "has  led  the  gentleman 
to  such  a  deduction.  But  when  I  suggest  to 
him  that  our  meeting  was  of  a  business,  or 
private  nature,  it  strikes  me  that  the  ques- 
tion of  intrusion  may  be  fairly  divided  be- 
tween him  and  ourselves.  We  may  be  even 
justified,  in  view  of  that  privacy,  in  asking 
him  if  his  — ■  er  —  entrance  to  this  house 
was  —  er  —  coincident  with  his  appearance 
among  us." 

"With   my  front   door   in  possession  of 


50  CLARENCE. 

strangers,"  said  Clarence,  more  in  reply  to 
a  sudden  contemptuous  glance  from  his  wife 
than  Starbottle's  insinuation,  "I  entered 
the  house  through  the  window." 

"Of  my  boudoir,  where  another  intruder 
once  broke  his  neck,"  interrupted  his  wife 
with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"Where  I  once  helped  this  lady  to  regain 
possession  of  her  house  when  it  was  held  by 
another  party  of  illegal  trespassers,  who, 
however,  were  content  to  call  themselves 
'jumpers,'  and  did  not  claim  the  privacy  of 
gentlemen." 

"Do  you  mean  to  imply,  sir,"  began 
Colonel  Starbottle  haughtily,  "that  "  — 

"I  mean  to  imply,  sir,"  said  Clarence 
with  quiet  scorn,  "that  I  have  neither  the 
wish  to  know  nor  the  slightest  concern  in 
any  purpose  that  brought  you  here,  and  that 
when  you  quit  the  house  you  take  your  se- 
crets and  your  privacy  with  you  intact,  with- 
out let  or  hindrance  from  me." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Brant,"  said 
Judge  Beeswinger,  suppressing  the  angry 
interruption  of  his  fellows  with  a  dominant 
wave  of  his  hand,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
Clarence  keenly,  "that  you  have  no  sympa- 
thy with  your  wife's  political  sentiments?  " 


CLARENCE.      .  51 

"I  have  already  given  you  the  informa- 
tion necessary  to  make  you  quit  this  house, 
and  that  is  all  you  have  a  right  to  know," 
returned  Clarence  with  folded  arms. 

"But  /  can  answer  for  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Brant,  rising,  with  a  quivering  voice  and 
curling  lip.  "There  is  no  sympathy  be- 
tween us.  We  are  as  far  apart  as  the  poles. 
We  have  nothing  in  common  but  this  house 
and  his  name." 

"But  you  are  husband  and  wife,  bound 
together  by  a  sacred  compact." 

"A  compact!"  echoed  Mrs.  Brant,  with 
a  bitter  laugh.  "Yes,  the  compact  that 
binds  South  Carolina  to  the  nigger-worship- 
ing Massachusetts.  The  compact  that  links 
together  white  and  black,  the  gentleman 
and  the  trader,  the  planter  and  the  poor 
white  —  the  compact  of  those  United  States. 
Bah!  that  has  been  broken,  and  so  can 
this." 

Clarence's  face  paled.  But  before  he 
could  speak  there  was  a  rapid  clattering  at 
the  gate  and  a  dismounted  vaquero  entered 
excitedly.  Turning  to  Mrs.  Brant  he  said 
hurriedly,  "Mother  of  God!  the  casa  is 
surrounded  by  a  rabble  of  mounted  men, 
and  there  is  one  amona'  them  even  now  who 


52  CLARENCE. 

demands  admittance  in  the  name  of  the 
Law." 

"This  is  your  work,"  said  Brooks,  facing 
Clarence  furiously.  "  You  have  brought 
them  with  you,  but,  by  God,  they  shall  not 
save  you!  "  He  would  have  clutched  Clar- 
ence, but  the  powerful  arm  of  Judge  Bees- 
winger  intervened.  Nevertheless,  he  still 
struggled  to  reach  Clarence,  appealing  to 
the  others :  "  Are  you  fools  to  stand  there 
and  let  him  triumph!  Don't  you  see  the 
cowardly  Yankee  trick  he 's  played  upon 
us?" 

"He  has  not,"  said  Mrs.  Brant  haugh- 
tily. "I  have  no  reason  to  love  him  or  his 
friends;  but  I  know  he  does  not  lie." 

"Gentlemen  !  —  gentlemen  !  "  implored 
Colonel  Starbottle  with  beaming  and  unct- 
uous persuasion,  "may  I  —  er  —  remark  — 
that  all  this  is  far  from  the  question  ?  Are 
we  to  be  alarmed  because  an  unknown  rab- 
ble, no  matter  whence  they  come,  demand 
entrance  here  in  the  name  of  the  Law?  I 
am  not  aware  of  any  law  of  the  State  of 
California  that  we  are  infringing.  By  all 
means  admit  them." 

The  gate  was  thrown  open.  A  single 
thick  -  set    man,  apparently   unarmed  and 


CLARENCE.  53 

dressed  like  an  ordinary  traveler,  followed 
by  half  a  dozen  other  equally  unpretentious- 
looking  men,  entered.  The  leader  turned  to 
the  balcony. 

"  I  am  the  Chief  of  Police  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. I  have  warrants  for  the  arrest 
of  Colonel  Culpepper  Starbottle,  Joshua 
Brooks,  Captain  Pinckney,  Clarence  Brant 
and  Alice  his  wife,  and  others  charged  with 
inciting  to  riot  and  unlawful  practice  cal- 
culated to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  State  of 
California  and  its  relations  with  the  Fed- 
eral government,"  said  the  leader,  in  a  dry 
official  voice. 

Clarence  started.  In  spite  of  its  monoto- 
nous utterance  it  was  the  voice  of  the  red- 
bearded  controversialist  of  the  stage-coach. 
But  where  were  his  characteristic  beard 
and  hair?  Involuntarily  Clarence  glanced 
at  Judge  Beeswinger;  that  gentleman  was 
quietly  regarding  the  stranger  with  an  im- 
passive face  that  betrayed  no  recognition 
whatever. 

"But  the  city  of  San  Francisco  has  no 
jurisdiction  here,"  said  Colonel  Starbottle, 
turning  a  bland  smile  towards  his  fellow- 
members.  "  I  am  —  er  —  sorry  to  inform 
you  that  you  are  simply  trespassing,  sir." 


54  CLARENCE. 

"I  am  here  also  as  deputy  sheriff,"  re- 
turned the  stranger  coolly.  "  We  were  un- 
able to  locate  the  precise  place  of  this  meet- 
ing, although  we  knew  of  its  existence,  I 
was  sworn  in  this  morning  at  Santa  Inez  by 
the  judge  of  this  district,  and  these  gentle- 
men with  me  are  my  posse." 

There  was  a  quick  movement  of  resistance 
by  the  members,  which  was,  however,  again 
waived  blandly  aside  by  Colonel  Starbottle. 
Leaning  forward  in  a  slightly  forensic  atti- 
tude, with  his  fingers  on  the  table  and  a 
shirt  frill  that  seemed  to  have  become  of  it- 
self erectile,  he  said,  with  pained  but  polite 
precision,  "I  grieve  to  have  to  state,  sir, 
that  even  that  position  is  utterly  untenable 
here.  I  am  a  lawyer  myself,  as  my  friend 
here.  Judge  Bees  winger  —  eh  ?  I  beg  your 
pardon! " 

The  officer  of  the  law  had  momentarily 
started,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Judge  Bees- 
winger,  who,  however,  seemed  to  be  quietly 
writing  at  the  table. 

"As  Judge  Beeswinger,"  continued  Colo- 
nel Starbottle,  "  will  probably  tell  you ;  and 
as  a  jurist  himself,  he  will  also  proba- 
bly agree  with  me  when  I  also  inform  you 
that,  as  the  United   States  government    is 


CLARENCE.  55 

an  aggrieved  party,  it  is  a  matter  frr  the 
Federal  courts  to  prosecute,  and  tliat  the 
only  officer  we  can  recognize  is  the  United 
States  Marshal  for  the  district.  When  I 
add  that  the  marshal,  Colonel  Cracken- 
thorpe,  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends,  and  an 
active  sympathizer  with  the  South  in  the 
present  struggle,  you  will  understand  that 
any  action  from  him  in  this  matter  is  ex- 
ceedingly improbable." 

The  general  murmur  of  laughter,  relief, 
and  approval  was  broken  by  the  quiet  voice 
of  Judge  Beeswinger. 

"Let  me  see  your  warrant,  Mr.  Deputy 
Sheriff." 

The  officer  approached  him  with  a  slightly 
perplexed  and  constrained  air,  and  exhibited 
the  paper.  Judge  Beeswinger  handed  it 
back  to  him.  "Colonel  Starbottle  is  quite 
right  in  his  contention,"  he  said  quietly; 
"the  only  officer  that  this  assembly  can  rec- 
ognize is  the  United  States  Marshal  or  his 
legal  deputy.  But  Colonel  Starbottle  is 
wrong  in  his  supposition  that  Colonel  Crack- 
enthorpe  still  retains  the  functions  of  that 
office.  He  was  removed  by  the  President  of 
the  United  States,  and  his  successor  was  ap- 
pointed and  sworn  in  by  the  Federal  judge 


56  CLARENCE. 

early  this  morning."  He  paused,  and  fold- 
ing up  the  paper  on  which  he  had  been  writ- 
ing, placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  deputy. 
"And  this,"  he  continued  in  the  same  even 
voice,  "constitutes  you  his  deputy,  and  will 
enable  you  to  carry  out  your  duty  in  com- 
ing here." 

"What  the  devil  does  this  mean,  sir? 
Who  are  you?"  gasped  Colonel  Starbottle, 
recoiling  suddenly  from  the  man  at  his  side. 

"I  am  the  new  United  States  Marshal 
for  the  Southern  District  of  California." 


CHAPTEE   III. 

Unsuspected  and  astounding  as  the  rev- 
elation was  to  Clarence,  its  strange  recep- 
tion by  the  conspirators  seemed  to  him  as 
astounding.  He  had  started  forward,  half 
expecting  that  the  complacent  and  self-con- 
fessed spy  would  be  immolated  by  his  infu- 
riated dupes.  But  to  his  surprise  the  shock 
seemed  to  have  changed  their  natures,  and 
given  them  the  dignity  they  liad  lacked. 
The  excitability,  irritation,  and  recklessness 
which  had  previously  characterized  them  had 
disappeared.  The  deputy  and  his  posse, 
who  had  advanced  to  the  assistance  of  their 
revealed  chief,  met  with  no  resistance. 
They  had  evidently,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
drawn  away  from  Judge  Beeswinger,  leav- 
ing a  cleared  space  around  him,  and  re- 
garded their  captors  with  sullen  contemptu- 
ous silence.  It  was  only  broken  by  Colonel 
Starbottle :  — 

"Your  duty  commands  you,  sir,  to  use 
all  possible  diligence  in  bringing  us  before 


58  CLARENCE. 

the  Federal  judge  of  this  district  —  unless 
your  master  in  Washington  has  violated  the 
Constitution  so  far  as  to  remove  him,  too!  " 

"I  understand  you  perfectly,"  returned 
Judge  Beeswinger,  with  unchanged  com- 
posure ;  "  and  as  you  know  that  Judge  Wil- 
son unfortunately  cannot  be  removed  except 
through  a  regular  course  of  impeachment,  I 
suppose  you  may  still  count  upon  his  South- 
ern sympathies  to  befriend  you.  With  thaj; 
I  have  nothing  to  do;  my  duty  is  complete 
when  my  deputy  has  brought  you  before  him 
and  I  have  stated  the  circumstances  of  the 
arrest." 

"I  congratulate  you,  sir,"  said  Captain 
Pinckney,  with  an  ironical  salute,  "on  your 
prompt  reward  for  your  treachery  to  the 
South,  and  your  equally  prompt  adoption 
of  the  peculiar  tactics  of  your  friends  in  the 
way  in  which  you  have  entered  this  house." 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  congratulate  you^ 
sir,"  returned  Judge  Beeswinger  gravely, 
"on  breaking  your  oath  to  the  government 
which  has  educated  and  supported  you  and 
given  you  the  epaulettes  you  disgrace.  Nor 
shall  I  discuss  '  treachery  '  with  the  man 
who  has  not  only  violated  the  trust  of 
his  country,  but  even  the  integrity  of  his 


CLARENCE.  59 

friend's  household.  It  is  for  that  reason 
that  I  withhold  the  action  of  this  warrant 
in  so  far  as  it  affects  the  persons  of  the 
master  and  mistress  of  this  home.  I  am 
satisfied  that  Mr.  Brant  has  been  as  igno- 
rant of  what  has  been  done  here  as  I  am 
that  his  wife  has  been  only  the  foolish  dupe 
of  a  double  traitor!  " 

"Silence!" 

The  words  broke  simultaneously  from  the 
lips  of  Clarence  and  Captain  Pinckney. 
They  stood  staring  at  each  other  —  the  one 
pale,  the  other  crimson  —  as  Mrs.  Brant, 
apparently  oblivious  of  the  significance  of 
their  united  adjuration,  turned  to  Judge 
Beeswinger  in  the  fury  of  her  still  stifled 
rage  and  mortification. 

"Keep  your  mercy  for  your  fellow-spy," 
she  said,  with  a  contemptuous  gesture  to- 
wards her  husband ;  "  /  go  with  these  gen- 
tlemen!" 

"You  will  not,"  said  Clarence  quietly, 
"until  I  have  said  a  word  to  you  alone." 
He  laid  his  hand  firmly  upon  her  wrist. 

The  deputy  and  his  prisoners  filed  slowly 
out  of  the  courtyard  together,  the  latter 
courteously  saluting  Mrs.  Brant  as  they 
passed,  but  turning  from  Judge  Beeswinger 


60  CLARENCE. 

in  contemptuous  silence.  The  judge  fol- 
lowed them  to  the  gate,  but  there  he  j^aused. 
Turning  to  Mrs.  Brant,  who  was  still  half 
struggling  in  the  strong  grij)  of  her  hus- 
band, he  said,  — 

"Any  compunction  I  may  have  had  in 
misleading  you  by  accepting  your  invitation 
here  I  dismissed  after  I  had  entered  this 
house.  And  I  trust,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Clarence  sternly,  "I  leave  you  the  master 
of  it!" 

As  the  gate  closed  behind  him,  Clarence 
locked  it.  When  his  wife  turned  upon  him 
angrily,  he  said  quietly,  — 

"I  have  no  intention  of  restraining  your 
liberty  a  moment  after  our  interview  is  over, 
but  until  then  I  do  not  intend  to  be  dis- 
turbed." 

She  threw  herself  disdainfully  back  in 
her  chair,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap 
in  half -contemptuous  resignation,  with  her 
eyes  upon  her  long  slim  arched  feet  crossed 
before  her.  Even  in  her  attitude  there  was 
something  of  her  old  fascination  which,  how- 
ever, now  seemed  to  sting  Clarence  to  the 
quick. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  in  regard 
to  what  has  just  passed  in  this  house,  except 


CLARENCE.  61 

that  as  long  as  I  remain  even  nominally  its 
master  it  shall  not  be  repeated.  Although 
I  shall  no  longer  attempt  to  influence  or 
control  your  political  sympathies,  I  shall 
not  allow  you  to  indulge  them  where  in  any 
way  they  seem  to  imply  my  sanction.  But 
so  little  do  I  oppose  your  liberty,  that  you 
are  free  to  rejoin  your  political  companions 
whenever  you  choose  to  do  so  on  your  own 
responsibility.  But  I  must  first  know  from 
your  own  lips  whether  your  sympathies  are 
purely  political  —  or  a  name  for  something 
else?" 

She  had  alternately  flushed  and  paled, 
although  still  keeping  her  scornful  attitude 
as  he  went  on,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  genuineness  of  her  vague  wonderment  at 
his  concluding  words. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said,  lift- 
ing her  eyes  to  his  in  a  moment  of  cold  curi- 
osity.     "What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  What  do  I  mean  ?  What  did  Judge  Bees- 
winger  mean  when  he  called  Captain  Pinck- 
ney  a  double  traitor?  "  he  said  roughly. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  flashing  eyes. 
"And  you  —  you  I  dare  to  repeat  the  cow- 
ardly lie  of  a  confessed  spy.  This,  then,  is 
what  you  wished  to  tell  me  —  this  the  insult 


62  CLARENCE. 

for  whicli  you  have  kept  me  here ;  because 
you  are  incapable  of  luiderstanding  unselfish 
patriotism  or  devotion  —  even  to  your  own 
cause  —  you  dare  to  judge  me  by  your  own 
base,  Yankee-trading  standards.  Yes,  it  is 
worthy  of  you !  "  She  walked  rapidly  up  and 
down,  and  then  suddenly  faced  him.  "  I  un- 
derstand it  all;  I  appreciate  your  magna- 
nimity now.  You  are  willing  I  should  join 
the  company  of  these  chivalrous  gentlemen 
in  order  to  give  color  to  your  calumnies ! 
Say  at  once  that  it  was  you  who  put  up  this 
spy  to  correspond  with  me  —  to  come  here 

—  in  order  to  entrap  me.     Yes !  entrap  me 

—  I  —  who  a  moment  ago  stood  up  for  you 
before  these  gentlemen,  and  said  you  could 
not  lie.     Bah!" 

Struck  only  by  the  wild  extravagance  of 
her  speech  and  temper,  Clarence  did  not 
know  that  when  women  are  most  illogical 
they  are  apt  to  be  most  sincere,  and  from 
a  man's  standpoint  her  unreasoning  deduc- 
tions appeared  to  him  only  as  an  affectation 
to  gain  time  for  thought,  or  a  theatrical  dis- 
play, like  Susy's.  And  he  was  turning  half 
contemptuously  away,  when  she  again  faced 
him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  Well,  hear  me !    I  accept ;  I  leave  here 


CLARENCE.  63 

at  once,  to  join  my  own  people,  my  own 
friends  —  those  who  understand  me  —  put 
what  construction  on  it  that  you  choose. 
Do  your  worst ;  you  cannot  do  more  to  sepa- 
rate us  than  you  have  done  just  now." 

She  left  him,  and  ran  up  the  steps  with  a 
singular  return  of  her  old  occasional  nymph- 
like nimbleness  —  the  movement  of  a  woman 
who  had  never  borne  children  —  and  a  swish 
of  her  long  skirts  that  he  remembered  for 
many  a  day  after,  as  she  disappeared  in  the 
corridor.  He  remained  looking  after  her 
—  indignant,  outraged,  and  unconvinced. 
There  was  a  rattling  at  the  gate. 

He  remembered  he  had  locked  it.  He 
opened  it  to  the  flushed  pink  cheeks  and 
dancing  eyes  of  Susy.  The  rain  was  still 
dripping  from  her  wet  cloak  as  she  swung 
it  from  her  shoulders. 

"I  know  it  all! — all  that's  happened," 
she  burst  out  with  half-girlish  exuberance 
and  half  the  actress's  declamation.  "We 
met  them  all  in  the  road  —  posse  and  pris- 
oners. Chief  Thompson  knew  me  and  told 
me  all.  And  so  you  've  done  it  —  and 
you  're  master  in  your  old  house  again. 
Clarence,  old  boy !  Jim  said  you  would  n't 
do  it  —  said  you  'd  weaken  on  account   of 


64  CLARENCE. 

her!  But  I  said 'No.'  I  knew  you  better, 
old  Clarence,  and  I  saw  it  in  your  face,  for 
all  your  stiffness!  ha!  But  for  all  that  I 
was  mighty  nervous  and  uneasy,  and  I  just 
made  Jim  send  an  excuse  to  the  theatre  and 
we  rushed  it  down  here!  Lordy!  but  it 
looks  natural  to  see  the  old  house  again! 
And  she  —  you  packed  her  off  with  the 
others  —  didn't  you?  Tell  me,  Clarence," 
in  her  old  appealing  voice,  "you  shook  her, 
too!" 

Dazed  and  astounded,  and  yet  experien- 
cing a  vague  sense  of  relief  with  something 
like  his  old  tenderness  towards  the  willful 
woman  before  him,  he  had  silently  regarded 
her  until  her  allusion  to  his  wife  recalled 
him  to  himself. 

"Hush!"  he  said  quickly,  with  a  glance 
towards  the  corridor. 

"Ah!  "  said  Susy,  with  a  malicious  smile, 
"then  that's  why  Captain  Pinckney  was 
lingering  in  the  rear  with  the  deputy." 

"Silence!"  repeated  Clarence  sternly. 
"Go  in  there,"  pointing  to  the  garden 
room  below  the  balcony,  "and  wait  there 
with  your  husband." 

He  half  led,  half  pushed  her  into  the 
room  which  had  been  his  business  office,  and 


CLARENCE.  65 

returned  to  the  patio.  A  hesitating  voice 
from  the  balcony  said,  "Clarence!  " 

It  was  his  wife's  voice,  but  modified  and 
gentler  —  more  like  her  voice  as  he  had  first 
heard  it,  or  as  if  it  had  been  chastened  by 
some  reminiscence  of  those  days.  It  was 
his  wife's  face,  too,  that  looked  down  on 
his  —  paler  than  he  had  seen  it  since  he 
entered  the  house.  She  was  shawled  and 
hooded,  carrying  a  traveling-bag  in  her 
hand. 

"I  am  going,  Clarence,"  she  said,  paus- 
ing before  him,  with  gentle  gravity,  "but 
not  in  anger.  I  even  ask  you  to  forgive 
me  for  the  foolish  words  that  I  think  your 
still  more  foolish  accusation  "  —  she  smiled 
faintly — "dragged  from  me.  I  am  going 
because  I  know  that  I  have  brought  —  and 
that  while  I  am  here  I  shall  always  be 
bringing  —  upon  you  the  imputation  and 
even  the  responsibility  of  my  own  faith! 
While  I  am  proud  to  own  it,  —  and  if  needs 
be  suffer  for  it,  —  I  have  no  right  to  ruin 
your  prospects,  or  even  make  you  the  victim 
of  the  slurs  that  others  may  cast  upon  me. 
Let  us  part  as  friends  —  separated  only  by 
our  different  political  faiths,  but  keeping 
all  other  faiths  together  —  until  God  shall 


66  CLARENCE. 

settle  the  right  of  this  struggle.  Perhaps 
it  may  be  soon  —  I  sometimes  think  it  may 
be  years  of  agony  for  all;  but  until  then, 
good-by." 

She  had  slowly  descended  the  steps  to  the 
patio,  looking  handsomer  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her,  and  as  if  sustained  and  upheld  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  her  cause.  Her  hand  was 
outstretched  towards  his  —  his  heart  beat 
violently  —  in  another  moment  he  might 
have  forgotten  all  and  clasped  her  to  his 
breast.  Suddenly  she  stopped,  her  out- 
stretched arm  stiffened,  her  finger  pointed 
to  the  chair  on  which  Susy's  cloak  was 
hanging. 

"What 's  that?  "  she  said  in  a  sharp,  high, 
metallic  voice.    "Who  is  here?    Speak!  " 

"Susy,"  said  Clarence. 

She  cast  a  scathing  glance  round  the 
patio,  and  then  settled  her  piercing  eyes  on 
Clarence  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"Already!" 

Clarence  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face 
as  he  stammered,  "  She  knew  what  was  hap- 
pening here,  and  came  to  give  you  warn- 
ing." 

"Liar!" 

"  Stop !  "  said  Clarence,  with  a  white  face. 


CLARENCE.  67 

"  She  came  to  tell  me  that  Captain  Pinckney 
was  still  lingering  for  you  in  the  road." 

He  threw  open  the  gate  to  let  her  pass. 
As  she  swept  out  she  lifted  her  hand.  As  he 
closed  the  gate  there  were  the  white  marks 
of  her  four  fingers  on  his  cheek. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

For  once  Susy  had  not  exaggerated. 
Captain  Pinckney  was  lingering,  with  the 
deputy  who  had  charge  of  him,  on  the  trail 
near  the  casa.  It  had  already  been  pretty 
well  understood  by  both  captives  and  cap- 
tors that  the  arrest  was  simply  a  legal  de- 
monstration ;  that  the  sympathizing  Federal 
judge  would  undoubtedly  order  the  dis- 
charge of  the  prisoners  on  their  own  re- 
cognizances, and  it  was  probable  that  the 
deputy  saw  no  harm  in  granting  Pinckney's 
request  —  which  was  virtually  only  a  delay 
in  his  liberation.  It  was  also  possible  that 
Pinckney  had  worked  upon  the  chivalrous 
sympathies  of  the  man  by  professing  his  dis- 
inclination to  leave  their  devoted  colleague, 
Mrs.  Brant,  at  the  mercy  of  her  antagonis- 
tic and  cold-blooded  husband  at  such  a  cri- 
sis, and  it  is  to  be  feared  also  that  Clarence, 
as  a  reputed  lukewarm  partisan,  excited 
no  personal  sympathy,  even  from  his  own 
party.  Howbeit,  the  deputy  agreed  to  delay 


CLARENCE.  69 

Pinckney's  journey  for  a  parting  interview 
with  his  fair  hostess. 

How  far  this  expressed  the  real  senti- 
ments of  Captain  Pinckney  was  never 
known.  Whether  his  political  association 
with  Mrs.  Brant  had  developed  into  a 
warmer  solicitude,  understood  or  ignored  by 
her,  —  what  were  his  hopes  and  aspirations 
regarding  her  future,  —  were  by  the  course 
of  fate  never  disclosed.  A  man  of  easy 
ethics,  but  rigid  artificialities  of  honor,  flat- 
tered and  pampered  by  class  prejudice,  a  so- 
called  "man  of  the  world,"  with  no  expe- 
rience beyond  his  own  limited  circle,  yet 
brave  and  devoted  to  that,  it  were  well  per- 
haps to  leave  this  last  act  of  his  inefficient 
life  as  it  was  accepted  by  the  deputy. 

Dismounting  he  approached  the  house 
from  the  garden.  He  was  already  familiar 
with  the  low  arched  doorway  which  led  to 
the  business  room,  and  from  which  he  could 
gain  admittance  to  the  patio,  but  it  so 
chanced  that  he  entered  the  dark  passage 
at  the  moment  that  Clarence  had  thrust 
Susy  into  the  business  room,  and  heard  its 
door  shut  sharply.  For  an  instant  he  be- 
lieved that  Mrs.  Brant  had  taken  refuge 
there,  but  as  he  cautiously  moved  forward 


^■'  •  ■ 

70  CLARENCE. 

he  heard  her  voice  in  the  patio  beyond.  Its 
accents  struck  him  as  pleading;  an  intense 
curiosity  drew  him  further  along  the  pas- 
sage. Suddenly  her  voice  seemed  to  change 
to  angry  denunciation,  and  the  word  "Liar  " 
rang  upon  his  ears.  It  was  followed  by  his 
own  name  uttered  sardonically  by  Clarence, 
the  swift  rustle  of  a  skirt,  the  clash  of  the 
gate,  and  then  —  forgetting  everything,  he 
burst  into  the  patio. 

Clarence  was  just  turning  from  the  gate 
with  the  marks  of  his  wife's  hand  still  red 
on  his  white  cheek.  He  saw  Captain  Pinck- 
ney's  eyes  upon  it,  and  the  faint,  half -ma- 
licious, half -hysteric  smile  upon  his  lips. 
But  without  a  start  or  gesture  of  surprise  he 
locked  the  gate,  and  turning  to  him,  said 
with  frigid  significance,  — 

"I  thank  you  for  returning  so  promptly, 
and  for  recognizing  the  only  thing  I  now 
require  at  your  hand." 

But  Captain  Pinckney  had  recovered  his 
supercilious  ease  with  the  significant  demand. 

"You  seem  to  have  had  something  already 
from  another's  hand,  sir,  but  I  am  at  your 
service,"  he  said  lightly. 

"You  will  consider  that  I  have  accepted 
it  from  you,"  said  Clarence,  drawing  closer 


CLARENCE.  71 

to  lilm  with  a  rigid  face.  "I  suppose  it  will 
not  be  necessary  for  me  to  return  it  —  to 
make  you  understand  me." 

"Go  on,"  said Pinckney,  flushing  slightly. 
"Make  your  terms;  I  am  ready." 

"But  I  'm  not,"  said  the  unexpected  voice 
of  the  deputy  at  the  grille  of  the  gateway. 
"Excuse  my  interfering,  gentlemen,  but  this 
sort  o'  thing  ain't  down  in  my  schedule. 
I  've  let  this  gentleman,"  pointing  to  Cap- 
tain Pinckney,  "off  for  a  minit  to  say 
'  good-by  '  to  a  lady,  who  I  reckon  has  just 
ridden  off  in  her  buggy  with  her  servant 
without  saying  by  your  leave,  but  I  did  n't 
calkelate  to  let  him  inter  another  business, 
which,  like  as  not,  may  prevent  me  from  de- 
livering his  body  safe  and  sound  into  court. 
You  hear  me!"  As  Clarence  opened  the 
gate  he  added,  "I  don't  want  ter  spoil  sport 
between  gents,  but  it 's  got  to  come  in  af- 
ter I  've  done  my  duty." 

"I'll  meet  you,  sir,  anywhere,  and  with 
what  weapons  you  choose,"  said  Pinckney, 
turning  angrily  upon  Clarence,  "as  soon  as 
this  farce  —  for  which  you  and  your  friends 
are  responsible — is  over."  He  was  furi- 
ous at  the  intimation  that  Mrs.  Brant  had 
escaped  him. 


72  CLARENCE. 

A  different  thought  was  in  the  husband's 
mind.  "But  what  assurance  have  I  that 
you  are  going  on  with  the  deputy?"  he  said 
with  purposely  insulting  deliberation. 

"My  word,  sir,"  said  Captain  Pinckney 
sharply. 

"And  if  that  ain't  enuft',  there  's  mine!  " 
said  the  deputy.  "For  if  this  gentleman 
swerves  to  the  right  or  left  betwixt  this  and 
Santa  Inez,  I  '11  blow  a  hole  through  him 
myself.  And  that,"  he  added  deprecatingly, 
"is  saying  a  good  deal  for  a  man  who  does 
n't  want  to  spoil  sport,  and  for  the  matter 
of  that  is  willing  to  stand  by  and  see  fair 
play  done  at  Santa  Inez  any  time  to-morrow 
before  breakfast." 

"Then  I  can  count  on  you,"  said  Clar- 
ence, with  a  sudden  impulse  extending  his 
hand. 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
grasped  it. 

"Well,  I  wasn't  expecting  that,"  he  said 
slowly;  "but  you  look  as  if  you  meant  busi- 
ness, and  if  you  ain't  got  anybody  else  to 
see  you  through,  I  'm  thar !  I  suppose  this 
gentleman  will  have  his  friends." 

"I  shall  be  there  at  six  with  my  seconds," 
said  Pinckney  curtly.      "Lead  on." 


CLARENCE.  73 

The  gate  closed  behind  them.  Clarence 
stood  looking  around  the  emj)ty  patio  and 
the  silent  house,  from  which  it  was  now 
plain  that  the  servants  had  been  withdrawn 
to  insure  the  secrecy  of  the  conspiracy. 
Cool  and  collected  as  he  knew  he  was,  he 
remained  for  a  moment  in  hesitation.  Then 
the  sound  of  voices  came  to  his  ear  from  the 
garden  room,  the  light  frivolity  of  Susy's 
laugh  and  Hooker's  huskier  accents.  He 
had  forgotten  they  were  there  —  he  had  for- 
gotten their  existence ! 

Trusting  still  to  his  calmness,  he  called  to 
Hooker  in  his  usual  voice.  That  gentleman 
appeared  with  a  face  which  his  attempts 
to  make  unconcerned  and  impassive  had, 
however,  only  deepened  into  funereal  grav- 
ity. 

"I  have  something  to  attend  to,"  said 
Clarence,  with  a  faint  smile,  "and  I  must 
ask  you  and  Susy  to  excuse  me  for  a  lit- 
tle while.  She  knows  the  house  perfectly, 
and  will  call  the  servants  from  the  annex 
to  provide  you  both  with  refreshment  until 
I  join  you  a  little  later."  Satisfied  from 
Hooker's  manner  that  they  knew  nothing  of 
his  later  interview  with  Piuckney,  he  turned 
away  and  ascended  to  his  own  room. 


74  CLARENCE. 

There  he  threw  himself  into  an  armchair 
by  the  dim  light  of  a  single  candle  as  if  to 
reflect.  But  he  was  conscious,  even  then, 
of  his  own  calmness  and  want  of  excite- 
ment, and  that  no  reflection  was  necessary. 
What  he  had  done  and  what  he  intended  to 
do  was  quite  clear;  there  was  no  alterna- 
tive suggested  or  to  be  even  sought  after. 
He  had  that  sense  of  relief  which  comes 
with  the  climax  of  all  great  struggles,  even 
of  defeat. 

He  had  never  known  before  how  hopeless 
and  continuous  had  been  that  struggle  until 
now  it  was  over.  He  had  no  fear  of  to- 
morrow; he  would  meet  it  as  he  had  to-day, 
with  the  same  singular  consciousness  of  be- 
ing equal  to  the  occasion.  There  was  even 
no  necessity  of  preparation  for  it;  his  will, 
leaving  his  fortune  to  his  wife,  —  which 
seemed  a  slight  thing  now  in  this  greater 
separation,  —  was  already  in  his  safe  in  San 
Francisco ;  his  pistols  were  in  the  next  room. 
He  was  even  slightly  disturbed  by  his  own 
insensibility,  and  passed  into  his  wife's  bed- 
room partly  in  the  hope  of  disturbing  his 
serenity  by  some  memento  of  their  past. 
There  was  no  disorder  of  flight  —  every- 
thing was  in  its  place,  except  the  drawer  of 


CLARENCE.  75 

her  desk,  which  was  still  open,  as  if  she  had 
taken  something  from  it  as  an  afterthought. 
There  were  letters  and  papers  there,  some 
of  his  own  and  some  in  Captain  Pinckney's 
handwriting.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to 
look  at  them  —  even  to  justify  himself,  or 
excuse  her.  He  knew  that  his  hatred  of 
Captain  Pinckney  was  not  so  much  that  he 
believed  him  her  lover,  as  his  sudden  con- 
viction that  she  was  like  him !  He  was  the 
male  of  her  species  —  a  being  antagonistic 
to  himself,  whom  he  could  fight,  and  crush, 
and  revenge  himself  upon.  But  most  of  all 
he  loathed  his  past,  not  on  account  of  her, 
but  of  his  own  weakness  that  had  made  him 
her  dupe  and  a  misunderstood  man  to  his 
friends.  He  had  been  derelict  of  duty  in 
his  unselfish  devotion  to  her;  he  had  stifled 
his  ambition,  and  underrated  his  own  pos- 
sibilities. No  wonder  that  others  had  ac- 
cepted him  at  his  own  valuation.  Clarence 
Brant  was  a  modest  man,  but  the  egotism  of 
modesty  is  more  fatal  than  that  of  preten- 
sion, for  it  has  the  haunting  consciousness 
of  superior  virtue. 

He  reentered  his  own  room  and  again 
threw  himself  into  his  chair.  His  cahn  was 
being  succeeded  by  a  physical  weariness ;  he 


76  CLARENCE. 

remembered  he  had  not  slept  the  night  be- 
fore, and  he  ought  to  take  some  rest  to  be 
fresh  in  the  early  morning.  Yet  he  must 
also  show  himself  before  his  self-invited 
guests,  —  Susy  and  her  husband,  —  or  their 
suspicions  would  be  aroused.  He  would  try 
to  sleep  for  a  little  while  in  the  chair  be- 
fore he  went  downstairs  again.  He  closed 
his  eyes  oddly  enough  on  a  dim  dreamy  re- 
collection of  Susy  in  the  old  days,  in  the 
little  madroixo  hollow  where  she  had  once 
given  him  a  rendezvous.  He  forgot  the  ma- 
turer  and  critical  uneasiness  with  which  he 
had  then  received  her  coquettish  and  wilKul 
advances,  which  he  now  knew  was  the  effect 
of  the  growing  dominance  of  Mrs.  Peyton 
over  him,  and  remembered  only  her  bright, 
youthful  eyes,  and  the  kisses  he  had  pressed 
upon  her  soft  fragrant  cheek.  The  faint- 
ness  he  had  felt  when  waiting  in  the  old  rose 
garden,  a  few  hours  ago,  seemed  to  steal  on 
him  once  more,  and  to  lapse  into  a  pleasant 
drowsiness.  He  even  seemed  again  to  in- 
hale the  perfume  of  the  roses. 

"Clarence!" 

He  started.  He  had  been  sleeping,  but 
the  voice  sounded  strangely  real. 

A  light,  girlish  laugh  followed.   He  sprang 


CLARENCE.  11 

to  liis  feet.  It  was  Susy  standing  beside 
liim  —  and  Susy  even  as  she  looked  in  the 
old  days! 

For  with  a  flash  of  her  old  audacity,  aided 
by  her  familiar  knowledge  of  the  house  and 
the  bunch  of  household  keys  she  had  found, 
which  dangled  from  her  girdle,  as  in  the 
old  fashion,  she  had  disinterred  one  of  her 
old  frocks  from  a  closet,  slipped  it  on,  and 
unloosening  her  brown  hair  had  let  it  fall 
in  rippling  waves  down  her  back.  It  was 
Susy  in  her  old  girlishness,  with  the  instinct 
of  the  grown  actress  in  the  arrangement  of 
her  short  skirt  over  her  pretty  ankles  and 
the  half -conscious  pose  she  had  taken. 

"Poor  dear  old  Clarence,"  she  said,  with 
dancing  eyes;  "I  might  have  won  a  dozen 
j^airs  of  gloves  from  you  while  you  slept 
there.  But  you  're  tired,  dear  old  boy,  and 
you  *ve  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  No  matter; 
you  've  shown  yourself  a  man  at  last,  and 
I  'm  proud  of  you." 

Half  ashamed  of  the  pleasure  he  felt  even 
in  his  embarrassment,  Clarence  stammered, 
*'But  this  change  —  this  dress." 

Susy  clapped  her  hands  like  a  child.  "I 
knew  it  would  surprise  you!  It 's  an  old 
frock    I  wore   the  year   I  went  away  with 


78  CLARENCE. 

auntie.  I  knew  where  it  was  hidden,  and 
fished  it  out  again  with  these  keys,  Clar- 
ence; it  seemed  so  like  old  times.  Lord! 
when  I  was  with  the  old  servants  again,  and 
you  didn't  come  down,  I  just  felt  as  if  I  'd 
never  been  away,  and  I  just  rampaged  free. 
It  seemed  to  me,  don't  you  know,  not  as  if 
I  'd  just  come,  but  as  if  I  'd  always  been 
right  here,  and  it  was  you  who  'd  just  come. 
Don't  you  understand!  Just  as  you  came 
when  me  and  Mary  Rogers  were  here;  don't 
you  remember  her,  Clarence,  and  how  she 
used  to  do  '  gooseberry  '  for  us  ?  Well, 
just  like  that.  So  I  said  to  Jim,  '  I  don't 
know  you  any  more  —  get !  '  and  I  just 
slipped  on  this  frock  and  ordered  Manuela 
around  as  I  used  to  do  —  and  she  in  fits  of 
laughter;  I  reckon,  Clarence,  she  has  n't 
laughed  as  much  since  I  left.  And  then  I 
thought  of  you  —  perhaps  worried  and  flus- 
tered as  yet  over  things,  and  the  change,  and 
I  just  slipped  into  the  kitchen  and  I  told  old 
fat  Conchita  to  make  some  of  these  tortillas 
you  know,  —  with  sugar  and  cinnamon 
sprinkled  on  top,  —  and  I  tied  on  an  apron 
and  brought  'em  up  to  you  on  a  tray  with  a 
glass  of  that  old  Catalan  wine  you  used  to 
like.     Then  I  sorter  felt  frightened  when  I 


CLARENCE.  79 

got  here,  and  I  did  n't  hear  any  noise,  and 
I  put  the  tray  down  in  the  hall  and  peeped 
in  and  found  you  asleep.  Sit  still,  I  '11  fetch 
'em." 

She  tripped  out  into  the  passage,  return- 
ing with  the  tray,  which  she  put  on  the  table 
beside  Clarence,  and  then  standing  back  a 
little  and  with  her  hands  tucked  soubrette 
fashion  in  the  tiny  pockets  of  her  apron, 
gazed  at  him  with  a  mischievous  smile. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  smile  back  as  he 
nibbled  the  crisp  Mexican  cake  and  drank 
the  old  mission  wine.  And  Susy's  tongue 
trilled  an  accompaniment  to  his  thanks. 

"  Lord !  it  seems  so  nice  to  be  here  —  just 
you  and  me,  Clarence  —  like  in  the  old  days 
—  with  nobody  naggin'  and  swoopin'  round 
after  you.  Don't  be  greedy,  Clarence,  but 
give  me  a  cake."  She  took  one  and  finished 
the  dregs  of  his  glass. 

Then  sitting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  she 
darted  a  violet  ray  of  half  reproach  and  half 
mischievousness  into  his  amused  and  retro- 
spective eyes.  "There  used  to  be  room  for 
two  in  that  chair,  Klarns." 

The  use  of  the  old  childish  diminutive 
for  his  name  seemed  to  him  natural  as  her 
familiarity,  and  he  moved  a  little  sideways 


80  CLARENCE. 

to  make  room  for  her  with  an  instinct  of 
pleasure,  but  the  same  sense  of  irresponsi- 
bility that  had  characterized  his  reflections. 
Nevertheless,  he  looked  critically  into  the 
mischievous  eyes,  and  said  quietly,  — 

"Where  is  your  husband?  " 

There  was  no  trace  of  embarrassment, 
apology,  or  even  of  consciousness  in  her 
pretty  face  as  she  replied,  passing  her  hand 
lightly  through  his  hair,  — 

"Oh,  Jim?     I  've  packed  him  off!  " 

"Packed  him  off  !  "  echoed  Clarence, 
slightly  astonished. 

"Yes,  to  Fair  Plains,  full  tilt  after  your 
wife's  buggy.  You  see,  Clarence,  after 
the  old  cat  —  that 's  your  wife,  please  —  left, 
I  wanted  to  make  sure  she  had  gone,  and 
was  n't  hangin'  round  to  lead  you  off  again 
with  your  leg  tied  to  her  apron  string  like  a 
chicken's!  No!  I  said  to  Jim,  'Just  you 
ride  after  her  until  you  see  she  's  safe  and 
sound  in  the  down  coach  from  Fair  Plains 
without  her  knowin'  it,  and  if  she  's  inclined 
to  hang  back  or  wobble  any,  you  post  back 
here  and  let  me  know !  '  I  told  him  I  would 
stay  and  look  after  you  to  see  you  didn't 
bolt  too!"  She  laughed,  and  then  added, 
"But  I  didn't  think  I  should  fall  into  the 


CLARENCE.  81 

old  ways  so  soon,  and  have  such  a  nice  time. 
Did  you,  Clarence?" 

She  looked  so  irresponsible,  sitting  there 
with  her  face  near  his,  and  so  childishly,  or 
perhaps  thoughtlessly,  happy,  that  he  could 
only  admire  her  levity,  and  even  the  slight 
shock  that  her  flippant  allusion  to  his  wife 
had  given  him  seemed  to  him  only  a  weak- 
ness of  his  own.  After  all,  was  not  hers 
the  true  philosophy  ?  Why  should  not  these 
bright  eyes  see  things  more  clearly  than  his 
own?  Nevertheless,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  them,  he  continued,  — 

"And  Jim  was  wdlling:  to  aro?" 

She  stopped,  with  her  fingers  still  lifting 
a  lock  of  his  hair.  "Why,  yes,  you  silly 
—  why  shouldn't  he?  I  'd  like  to  see  him 
refuse.  Why,  Lord !  Jim  will  do  anything 
I  ask  him."  She  put  down  the  lock  of  hair, 
and  suddenly  looking  full  into  his  eyes,  said, 
"That's  just  the  difference  between  him 
and  me,  and  you  and  —  that  woman!  " 

"Then  you  love  him!  " 

"About  as  much  as  you  love  her,"  she 
said,  with  an  unaffected  laugh;  "only  he 
don't  wind  me  around  his  finger." 

No  doubt  she  was  right  for  all  her  thought- 
lessness, and  yet  he  was  going  to  fight  about 


82  CLARENCE. 

that  woman  to-morrow !  No  —  lie  forgot ; 
he  was  gomg  to  fight  Captain  Pinckney  be- 
cause he  was  like  her ! 

Susy  had  put  her  finger  on  the  crease  be- 
tween his  brows  which  this  supposition  had 
made,  and  tried  to  rub  it  out. 

"You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do,  Clarence," 
she  said,  with  a  pretty  wrinkling  of  her 
own  brows,  which  was  her  nearest  approach 
to  thoughtfulness.  "You  know  you  never 
really  liked  her,  only  you  thought  her  ways 
were  grander  and  more  proper  than  mine, 
and  you  know  you  were  always  a  little  bit 
of  a  snob  and  a  prig  too  —  dear  boy.  And 
Mrs.  Peyton  was  —  bless  my  soul !  —  a  Ben- 
ham  and  a  planter's  daughter,  and  I  —  I 
was  only  a  picked  -  up  orphan  !  That  's 
where  Jim  is  better  than  you  —  now  sit  still, 
goosey!  —  even  if  I  don't  like  him  as  much. 
Oh,  I  know  what  you  're  always  thinking, 
you  're  thinking  we  're  both  exaggerated 
and  theatrical,  ain't  you?  But  don't  you 
think  it 's  a  heap  better  to  be  exaggerated 
and  theatrical  about  things  that  are  just  sen- 
timental and  romantic  than  to  be  so  awfully 
possessed  and  overcome  about  things  that 
are  only  real?  There,  you  needn't  stare 
at  me  so!     It's  true.       You've  had  your 


CLARENCE.  83 

fill  of  grandeur  and  propriety,  and  —  here 
you  are.  And,"  she  added  with  a  little 
chuckle,  as  she  tucked  up  her  feet  and 
leaned  a  little  closer  to  him,  "here  's  wie." 

He  did  not  speak,  but  his  arm  quite  un- 
consciously passed  round  her  small  waist. 

"You  see,  Clarence,"  she  went  on  with 
equal  unconsciousness  of  the  act,  "you  ought 
never  to  have  let  me  go  —  never  !  You 
ought  to  have  kept  me  here  —  or  run  away 
with  me.  And  you  ought  n't  to  have  tried 
to  make  me  proper.  And  you  ought  n't  to 
have  driven  me  to  flirt  with  that  horrid 
S2:)aniard,  and  you  ouglit  n't  to  have  been  so 
horribly  cold  and  severe  when  I  did.  And 
you  oughtn't  to  have  made  me  take  up  with 
Jim,  who  was  the  only  one  who  thought 
me  his  equal.  I  might  have  been  very  silly 
and  capricious ;  I  might  have  been  very  vain, 
but  my  vanity  is  n't  a  bit  worse  than  your 
pride;  my  love  of  praise  and  applause  in 
the  theatre  is  n't  a  bit  more  horrid  than  your 
fears  of  what  people  might  think  of  you  or 
me.  That's  gospel  truth,  isn't  it,  Clar- 
ence? Tell  me!  Don't  look  that  way  and 
this  —  look  at  me!  I  ain't  poisonous,  Clar- 
ence. Why,  one  of  your  cheeks  is  redder 
than  the    other,   Clarence;    that's   the  one 


84  CLARENCE. 

that  's  turned  from  me.  Come,"  she  went 
on,  taking  the  laj)els  of  his  coat  between  her 
hands  and  half  shaking  him,  half  drawing 
him  nearer  her  bright  face.  "Tell  me  — 
isn't  it  true?  " 

"I  was  thinking  of  you  just  now  when  I 
fell  asleep,  Susy,"  he  said.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  said  it;  he  had  not  intended 
to  tell  her,  he  had  only  meant  to  avoid  a 
direct  answer  to  her  question ;  yet  even  now 
he  went  on.  "And  I  thought  of  you  when 
I  was  out  there  in  the  rose  garden  waiting 
to  come  in  here." 

"You  did?"  she  said,  drawing  in  her 
breath.  A  wave  of  delicate  pink  color  came 
up  to  her  very  eyes,  it  seemed  to  him  as 
quickly  and  as  innocently  as  when  she  was 
a  girl.  "And  what  did  you  think,  Klarns," 
she  half  whispered  —  "tell  me." 

He  did  not  speak,  but  answered  her  blue 
eyes  and  then  her  lips,  as  her  arms  slipped 
quite  naturally  around  his  neck. 

The  dawn  was  breaking  as  Clarence  and 
Jim  Hooker  emerged  together  from  the  gate 
of  the  casa.  Mr.  Hooker  looked  sleepy. 
He  had  found,  after  his  return  from  Fair 
Plains,  that  his  host  had  an  early  engage- 


CLARENCE.  85 

ment  at  Santa  Inez,  and  he  had  insisted 
upon  rising-  to  see  him  off.  It  was  with  dif- 
ficulty, indeed,  that  Clarence  could  prevent 
his  accompanying  him.  Clarence  had  not 
revealed  to  Susy  the  night  before  the  real 
object  of  his  journey,  nor  did  Hooker  evi- 
dently suspect  it,  yet  when  the  former  had 
mounted  his  horse,  he  hesitated  for  an  in- 
stant, extending  his  hand. 

"If  I  should  happen  to  be  detained,"  he 
began  with  a  half  smile. 

But  Jim  was  struggling  with  a  yawn. 
"That's  all  right  — don't  mind  us,"  he 
said,  stretching  his  arms.  Clarence's  hesi- 
tating hand  dropped  to  his  side,  and  with  a 
light  reckless  laugh  and  a  half  sense  of  pro- 
vidential relief  he  galloped  away. 

What  happened  immediately  thereafter 
during  his  solitary  ride  to  Santa  Inez,  look- 
ing back  upon  it  in  after  years,  seemed  but 
a  confused  recollection,  more  like  a  dream. 
The  long  stretches  of  vague  distance,  gradu- 
ally opening  clearer  with  the  rising  sun  in 
an  unclouded  sky;  the  meeting  with  a  few 
early  or  belated  travelers  and  his  uncon- 
scious avoidance  of  them,  as  if  they  might 
know  of  his  object;  the  black  shadows  of 
foreshortened  cattle  rising  before  him  on  the 


86  CLARENCE. 

plain  and  arousing  the  same  uneasy  sensa- 
tion of  their  being  waylaying  men ;  the  won- 
derino-  recognition  of  houses  and  landmarks 
he  had  long  been  familiar  with ;  his  purpose- 
less attempts  to  recall  the  circumstances  in 
which  he  had  known  them  —  all  these  were 
like  a  dream.  So,  too,  were  the  recollec- 
tions of  the  night  before,  the  episode  with 
Susy,  already  mingled  and  blended  with  the 
memory  of  their  previous  past;  his  futile 
attempts  to  look  forward  to  the  future, 
always,  however,  abandoned  with  relief  at 
the  thought  that  the  next  few  hours  might 
make  them  unnecessary.  So  also  was  the 
sudden  realization  that  Santa  Inez  was  be- 
fore him,  when  he  had  thought  he  was  not 
yet  halfway  there,  and  as  he  dismounted 
before  the  Court  House  his  singular  feeling 

—  followed,  however,  by  no  fear  or  distress 

—  was  that  he  had  come  so  early  to  the  ren- 
dezvous that  he  was  not  yet  quite  prepared 
for  it. 

This  same  sense  of  unreality  pervaded  his 
meeting  with  the  deputy  sheriff,  at  the  news 
that  the  Federal  judge  had,  as  was  expected, 
dismissed  the  prisoners  on  their  own  recog- 
nizances, and  that  Captain  Pinckney  was  at 
the   hotel   at   breakfast.     In   the   like   ab- 


CLARENCE.  87 

stracted  manner  he  replied  to  the  one  or 
two  questions  of  the  deputy,  exhibited  the 
pistols  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  finally 
accompanied  him  to  a  little  meadow  hidden 
by  trees,  below  the  hotel,  where  the  other 
principal  and  his  seconds  were  awaiting 
them.  And  here  he  awoke  —  clear-eyed, 
keen,  forceful,  and  intense! 

So  stimulated  were  his  faculties  that  his 
sense  of  hearing  in  its  acuteness  took  in 
every  word  of  the  conversation  between  the 
seconds,  a  few  paces  distant.  He  heard  his 
adversary's  seconds  say  carelessly  to  the 
deputy  sheriff,  "I  jjresume  this  is  a  case 
where  there  will  be  no  apology  or  media- 
tion," and  the  deputy's  reply,  "I  reckon  my 
man  means  business,  but  he  seems  a  little 
queer."  He  heard  the  other  second  laugh, 
and  say  lightly,  "They're  apt  to  be  so 
when  it 's  their  first  time  out,"  followed  by 
the  more  anxious  aside  of  the  other  second 
as  the  deputy  turned  away,  —  "Yes,  but  by 
G — d  I  don't  like  his  looks !  "  His  sense  of 
sight  was  also  so  acute  that  having  lost  the 
choice  of  position,  when  the  coin  was  tossed, 
and  being  turned  with  his  face  to  the  sun, 
even  through  the  glare  he  saw,  with  unerr- 
ing distmctness  of  outline,  the  black-coated 


88  CLARENCE. 

figure  of  his  opponent  moved  into  range  — 
saw  tlie  perfect  outline  of  his  features,  and 
how  the  easy,  supercilious  smile,  as  he  threw 
away  his  cigar,  appeared  to  drop  out  of  his 
face  with  a  kind  of  vacant  awe  as  he  faced 
him.  He  felt  his  nerves  become  as  steel 
as  the  counting  began,  and  at  the  word 
"three,"  knew  he  had  fired  by  the  recoil 
of  the  pistol  in  his  leveled  hand,  simultane- 
ously with  its  utterance.  And  at  the  same 
moment,  still  standing  like  a  rock,  he  saw 
his  adversary  miserably  collapse,  his  legs 
grotesquely  curving  inwards  under  him,  — 
without  even  the  dignity  of  death  in  his 
fall,  —  and  so  sink  helplessly  like  a  felled 
bull  to  the  ground.  Still  erect,  and  lower- 
ing only  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol,  as  a  thin 
feather  of  smoke  curled  up  its  shining  side, 
he  saw  the  doctor  and  seconds  run  quickly 
to  the  heap,  try  to  lift  its  limp  impotence 
into  shape,  and  let  it  drop  again  with  the 
words,  "Right  through  the  forehead,  by 
G— d!" 

"You  've  done  for  him,"  said  the  deputy, 
turning  to  Clarence  with  a  singular  look  of 
curiosity,  "and  I  reckon  you  had  better  get 
out  of  this  mighty  quick.  They  did  n't 
expect  it;    they  're  just   ragin';    they  may 


CLARENCE.  89 

round  on  you  —  and  "  —  he  added,  more 
slowly,  "they  seem  to  have  just  found  out 
who  you  are." 

Even  while  he  was  speaking,  Clarence, 
with  his  quickened  ear,  heard  the  words, 
"One  of  Hamilton  Brant's  pups"  "Just 
like  his  father,"  from  the  group  around  the 
dead  man.  He  did  not  hesitate,  but  walked 
coolly  towards  them.  Yet  a  certain  fierce 
pride  —  which  he  had  never  known  before  — 
stirred  in  his  veins  as  their  voices  hushed 
and  they  haK  recoiled  before  him. 

"Am  I  to  understand  from  my  second, 
gentlemen,"  he  said,  looking  round  the 
grouj5,  "that  you  are  not  satisfied?" 

"The  fight  was  square  enough,"  said 
Pinckney's  second  in  some  embarrassment, 
"but  I  reckon  that  he,"  pointing  to  the  dead 
man,  "did  not  know  who  you  were." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  did  not  know  that 
I  was  the  son  of  a  man  proficient  in  the  use 
of  arms?  " 

"I  reckon  that  's  about  it,"  returned  the 
second,  glancing  at  the  others. 

"I  am  glad  to  say,  sir,  that  I  have  a  bet- 
ter opinion  of  his  courage,"  said  Clarence, 
lifting  his  hat  to  the  dead  body  as  he  turned 
away. 


90  CLARENCE. 

Yet  he  was  conscious  of  no  remorse,  con- 
cern, or  even  pity  in  his  act.  Perhaps  this 
was  visible  in  his  face,  for  the  group  ap- 
peared awed  by  this  perfection  of  the  duel- 
ist's coolness,  and  even  returned  his  formal 
parting  salutation  with  a  vague  and  timid 
respect.  He  thanked  the  dej)uty,  regained 
the  hotel,  saddled  his  horse  and  galloped 
away. 

But  not  towards  the  Rancho.  Now  that 
he  could  think  of  his  future,  that  had  no 
place  in  his  reflections;  even  the  episode  of 
Susy  was  forgotten  in  the  new  and  strange 
conception  of  himself  and  his  irresponsi- 
bility which  had  come  upon  him  with  the 
killing  of  Pinckney  and  the  words  of  his 
second.  It  was  his  dead  father  who  had 
stiffened  his  arm  and  directed  the  fatal 
shot  I  It  was  hereditary  influences  —  which 
others  had  been  so  quick  to  recognize  — 
that  had  brouglrt  about  this  completing  cli- 
max of  his  trouble.  How  else  could  he  ac- 
count for  it  that  he  —  a  conscientiovis,  peace- 
ful, sensitive  man,  tender  and  forgiving  as 
he  had  believed  himself  to  be  —  could  now 
feel  so  little  sorrow  or  compunction  for  his 
culminating  act?  He  had  read  of  success- 
ful duelists  who  were  haunted  by  remorse 


CLARENCE.  91 

for  their  first  victim ;  who  retained  a  terrible 
consciousness  of  the  appearance  of  the  dead 
man;  he  had  no  such  feeling;  he  had  only 
a  grim  contentment  in  the  wiped-out  ineffi- 
cient life,  and  contempt  for  the  limp  and 
helpless  body.  He  suddenly  recalled  his 
callousness  as  a  boy  when  face  to  face  with 
the  victims  of  the  Indian  massacre,  his 
sense  of  fastidious  superciliousness  in  the 
discovery  of  the  body  of  Susy's  mother  !  — 
surely  it  was  the  cold  blood  of  his  father  in- 
fluencino-  him  ever  thus.  What  had  he  to 
do  with  affection,  with  domestic  happiness, 
with  the  ordinary  ambitions  of  man's  life 
—  whose  blood  was  frozen  at  its  source! 
Yet  even  with  this  very  thought  came  once 
more  the  old  inconsistent  tenderness  he  had 
as  a  boy  lavished  upon  the  almost  unknown 
and  fugitive  father  who  had  forsaken  his 
childish  companionship,  and  remembered 
him  only  by  secret  gifts.  He  remembered 
how  he  had  worshiped  him  even  while  the 
pious  padres  at  San  Jose  were  endeavor- 
ing to  eliminate  this  terrible  poison  from  his 
blood  and  combat  his  hereditary  instinct  in 
his  conflicts  with  his  school-fellows.  And  it 
was  a  part  of  this  inconsistency  that,  riding 
away  from  the  scene  of  his  first  bloodshed, 


92  CLARENCE. 

his  eyes  were  dimmed  with  moisture,  not  for 
his  victim,  but  for  the  one  being  who  he 
believed  had  impelled  him  to  the  act. 

This  and  more  was  in  his  mind  during 
his  long  ride  to  Fair  Plains,  his  journey 
by  coach  to  the  Embarcadero,  his  midnight 
passage  across  the  dark  waters  of  the  bay, 
and  his  reentrance  to  San  Francisco,  but 
what  should  be  his  future  was  still  un- 
settled. 

As  he  wound  round  the  crest  of  Russian 
Hill  and  looked  down  again  upon  the  awak- 
ened city,  he  was  startled  to  see  that  it  was 
fluttering  and  streaming  with  bunting. 
From  every  public  building  and  hotel,  from 
the  roofs  of  private  houses,  and  even  the 
windows  of  lonely  dwellings,  flapped  and 
waved  the  striped  and  starry  banner.  The 
steady  breath  of  the  sea  carried  it  out  from 
masts  and  yards  of  ships  at  their  wharves, 
from  the  battlements  of  the  forts  Alcatraz 
and  Yerba  Bueno.  He  remembered  that 
the  ferryman  had  told  him  that  the  news 
from  Fort  Sumter  had  swept  the  city  with 
a  revulsion  of  patriotic  sentiment,  and  that 
there  was  no  doubt  that  the  State  was  saved 
to  the   Union.     He  looked   down   upon   it 


CLARENCE.  93 

with  haggard,  bewildered  eyes,  and  then  a 
strange  gasp  and  fullness  of  the  throat !  For 
afar  a  solitary  bugle  had  blown  the  "re- 
veille "  at  Fort  Alcatraz. 


PAET  II. 

CHAPTEE   I. 

Night  at  last,  and  the  stir  and  tumult  of 
a  great  fight  over.  Even  the  excitement 
that  had  swept  this  portion  of  the  battle- 
field —  only  a  small  section  of  a  vaster 
area  of  struggle  —  into  which  a  brigade  had 
marched,  held  its  own,  been  beaten  back, 
recovered  its  ground,  and  pursuing,  had 
passed  out  of  it  forever,  leaving  only  its 
dead  behind,  and  knowing  nothing  more 
of  that  struggle  than  its  own  impact  and 
momentum  —  even  this  wild  excitement  had 
long  since  evaporated  with  the  stinging 
smoke  of  gunpowder,  the  acrid  smell  of 
burning  rags  from  the  clothing  of  a  dead 
soldier  fired  by  a  bursting  shell,  or  the 
heated  reek  of  sweat  and  leather.  A  cool 
breath  that  seemed  to  bring  back  once  more 
the  odor  of  the  upturned  earthworks  along 
the  now  dumb  line  of  battle  began  to  move 
from  the  suggestive  darkness  beyond. 

But  into  that  awful  penetralia  of  death 


CLARENCE.  95 

and  silence  there  was  no  invasion  —  there 
had  been  no  retreat.  A  few  of  the  wounded 
had  been  brought  out,  vmder  fire,  but  the 
others  had  been  left  with  the  dead  for 
the  morning  light  and  succor.  For  it  was 
known  that  in  that  horrible  obscurity,  rider- 
less horses,  frantic  with  the  smell  of  blood, 
galloped  wildly  here  and  there,  or,  mad- 
dened by  wounds,  plunged  furiously  at  the 
intruder  ;  that  the  wounded  soldier,  still 
armed,  could  not  always  distinguish  friend 
from  foe  or  from  the  ghouls  of  camp  follow- 
ers who  stripped  the  dead  in  the  darkness 
and  struggled  with  the  dying.  A  shot  or  two 
heard  somewhere  in  that  obscurity  counted 
as  nothing  with  the  long  fusillade  that  had 
swept  it  in  the  daytime;  the  passing  of  a 
single  life,  more  or  less,  amounted  to  little 
in  the  long  roll-call  of  the  day's  slaughter. 

But  with  the  first  beams  of  the  morning 
sun  —  and  the  slowly  moving  "relief  detail " 
from  the  camp  —  came  a  weird  half ^resur- 
rection  of  that  ghastly  field.  Then  it  was 
that  the  long  rays  of  sunlight,  streaming 
away  a  mile  beyond  the  battle  line,  pointed 
out  the  first  harvest  of  the  dead  where  the 
reserves  had  been  posted.  There  they  lay 
in  heaps  and  piles,  killed  by  solid  shot  or 


96  CLARENCE. 

bursting  shells  that  had  leaped  the  battle 
line  to  i^lunge  into  the  waiting  ranks  be- 
yond. As  the  sun  lifted  higher  its  beams 
fell  within  the  range  of  musketry  fire,  where 
the  dead  lay  thicker,  —  even  as  they  had 
fallen  when  killed  outright,  —  with  arms 
extended  and  feet  at  all  angles  to  the  field. 
As  it  touched  these  dead  upturned  faces, 
strangely  enough  it  brought  out  no  expres- 
sion of  pain  or  anguish  —  but  rather  as  if 
death  had  arrested  them  only  in  surprise  and 
awe.  It  revealed  on  the  lips  of  those  who 
had  been  mortally  wounded  and  had  turned 
upon  their  side  the  relief  which  death  had 
brought  their  suffering,  sometimes  shown  in 
a  faint  smile.  Mounting  higher,  it  glanced 
upon  the  actual  battle  line,  curiously  curv- 
ing for  the  shelter  of  walls,  fences,  and 
breastworks,  and  here  the  dead  lay,  even  as 
when  they  lay  and  fired,  their  faces  prone 
in  the  grass  but  their  muskets  still  resting 
across  the  breastworks.  Exposed  to  grape 
and  canister  from  the  battery  on  the  ridge, 
death  had  come  to  them  mercifully  also  — 
through  the  head  and  throat.  And  now  the 
whole  field  lay  bare  in  the  sunlight,  broken 
with  grotesque  shadows  cast  from  sitting, 
crouching,  half -recumbent  but  always  rigid 


CLARENCE.  97 

figures,  wliicli  might  have  been  effigies  on 
their  own  monuments.  One  half -kneeling 
soldier,  with  head  bowed  between  his  stif- 
fened hands,  might  have  stood  for  a  carven 
figure  of  Grief  at  the  feet  of  his  dead  com- 
rade. A  captain,  shot  through  the  brain  in 
the  act  of  moimting  a  wall,  lay  sideways 
half  across  it,  his  lips  parted  with  a  word  of 
command ;  his  sword  still  pointing  over  the 
barrier  the  way  that  they  should  go. 

But  it  was  not  until  the  sun  had  mounted 
higher  that  it  struck  the  central  horror  of 
the  field  and  seemed  to  linger  there  in  daz- 
zling persistence,  now  and  then  returning  to 
it  in  startling  flashes  that  it  might  be  seen 
of  men  and  those  who  brought  succor.  A 
tiny  brook  had  run  obliquely  near  the  bat- 
tle line.  It  was  here  that,  the  night  before 
the  battle,  friend  and  foe  had  filled  their 
canteens  side  by  side  with  soldierly  reck- 
lessness —  or  perhaps  a  higher  instinct  — 
purposely  ignoring  each  other's  presence;  it 
was  here  that  the  wounded  had  afterwards 
crept,  crawled,  and  dragged  themselves; 
here  they  had  pushed,  wrangled,  striven, 
and  fought  for  a  draught  of  that  precious 
fluid  which  assuaged  the  thirst  of  their 
wounds  —  or  happily  put  them  out  of  their 


98  CLARENCE. 

misery  forever;  here  overborne,  crushed, 
suffocated  by  numbers,  pouring  their  own 
blood  into  the  flood,  and  tumbling  after  it 
with  their  helpless  bodies,  they  dammed  the 
stream,  until  recoiling,  red  and  angry,  it 
had  burst  its  banks  and  overflowed  the  cot- 
ton-field in  a  broad  pool  that  now  sparkled 
in  the  sunlight.  But  below  this  human  dam 
—  a  mile  away  —  where  the  brook  still  crept 
sluggishly,  the  ambulance  horses  sniffed  and 
started  from  it. 

The  detail  moved  on  slowly,  doing  their 
work  expeditiously,  and  apparently  cal- 
lously, but  really  only  with  that  mechanical 
movement  that  saves  emotion.  Only  once 
they  were  moved  to  an  outbreak  of  indigna- 
tion, -^  the  discovery  of  the  body  of  an  offi- 
cer whose  pockets  were  turned  inside  out, 
but  whose  hand  was  still  tightly  grasped  on 
his  buttoned  waistcoat,  as  if  resisting  the 
outrage  that  had  been  done  while  still  in 
life.  As  the  men  disengaged  the  stiffened 
hand  something  slipped  from  the  waistcoat 
to  the  ground.  The  corporal  picked  it  up 
and  handed  it  to  his  officer.  It  was  a  sealed 
packet.  The  officer  received  it  with  the 
carelessness  which  long  experience  of  these 
pathetic  missives  from  the  dying  to  their  liv- 


CLARENCE.  99 

ing  relations  had  induced,  and  dropped  it  in 
the  pocket  of  his  tunic,  with  the  half-dozen 
others  that  he  had  picked  up  that  morning, 
and  moved  on  with  the  detail.  A  little  fur- 
ther on  they  halted,  in  the  attitude  of  atten- 
tion, as  a  mounted  officer  appeared,  riding 
slowly  down  the  line. 

There  was  something  more  than  the  habit- 
ual respect  of  their  superior  in  their  faces 
as  he  came  forward.  For  it  was  the  gen- 
eral who  had  commanded  the  brig^ade  the 
day  before,  —  the  man  who  had  leaped  with 
one  bound  into  the  foremost  rank  of  mili- 
tary leaders.  It  was  his  invincible  spirit 
that  had  led  the  advance,  held  back  defeat 
against  overwhelming  numbers,  sustained 
the  rally,  impressed  his  subordinate  officers 
with  his  own  undeviating  purpose,  and  even 
infused  them  with  an  almost  superstitious 
belief  in  his  destiny  of  success.  It  was  this 
man  who  had  done  what  it  was  deemed  im- 
possible to  do,  —  what  even  at  the  time  it 
was  thought  unwise  and  unstrategic  to  do,  — 
who  had  held  a  weak  position,  of  aj)parently 
no  importance,  under  the  mandate  of  an 
incomprehensible  order  from  his  superior, 
which  at  best  asked  only  for  a  sacrifice  and 
was  rewarded  with  a  victory.     He  had  de- 


100  CLARENCE. 

cimated  his  brigade,  but  the  wounded  and 
dying  had  cheered  him  as  he  passed,  and 
the  survivors  had  pursued  the  enemy  until 
the  bugle  called  them  back.  For  such  a 
record  he  looked  still  too  young  and  schol- 
arly, albeit  his  handsome  face  was  dark  and 
energetic,  and  his  manner  taciturn. 

His  quick  eye  had  already  caught  sight 
of  the  rifled  body  of  the  officer,  and  con- 
tracted. As  the  captain  of  the  detail  sa- 
luted him  he  said  curtly,  — 

"I  thought  the  orders  were  to  fire  upon 
any  one  desecrating  the  dead?" 

"They  are,  General;  but  the  hyenas 
don't  give  us  a  chance.  That 's  all  yonder 
poor  fellow  saved  from  their  claws,"  replied 
the  officer,  as  he  held  up  the  sealed  packet. 
"It  has  no  address." 

The  general  took  it,  examined  the  envel- 
ope, thrust  it  into  his  belt,  and  said,  — 

"I  will  take  charge  of  it." 

The  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  came  from 
the  rocky  roadside  beyond  the  brook.  Both 
men  turned.  A  number  of  field  officers  were 
approaching. 

"The  division  staff,"  said  the  captain, 
in  a  lower  voice,  falling  back. 

They  came    slowly    forward,   a    central 


CLARENCE.  101 

figure  on  a  gray  horse  leading  here  —  as 
in  history.  A  short,  thick-set  man  with  a 
grizzled  beard  closely  cropped  around  an  in- 
scrutable mouth,  and  the  serious  formality  of 
a  respectable  country  deacon  in  his  aspect, 
which  even  the  major-general's  blazon  on 
the  shoulder-strap  of  his  loose  tunic  on  his 
soldierly  seat  in  the  saddle  could  not  en- 
tirely obliterate.  He  had  evidently  per- 
ceived the  general  of  brigade,  and  quick- 
ened his  horse  as  the  latter  drew  up.  The 
staff  followed  more  leisurely,  but  still  with 
some  curiosity,  to  witness  the  meeting  of  the 
first  general  of  the  army  with  the  youngest. 
The  division  general  saluted,  but  almost  in- 
stantly withdrew  his  leathern  gauntlet,  and 
offered  his  bared  hand  to  the  brigadier. 
The  words  of  heroes  are  scant.  The  drawn- 
up  detail,  the  waiting  staff  listened.  This 
was  all  they  heard :  — 

"Halleck  tells  me  you're  from  Califor- 
nia?" 

"Yes,  General." 

"  Ah !  I  lived  there,  too,  in  the  early  days. 
Wonderful  country.  Developed  greatly 
since  my  time,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  General." 

"Great  resources;   finest  wheat-growing 


102  CLARENCE. 

country  in  the  world,  sir.  You  don't  hap- 
pen to  know  what  the  actual  crop  was  this 
year?" 

"Hardly,  General!  but  something  enor- 
mous." 

"Yes,  I  have  always  said  it  would  be. 
Have  a  cigar?  " 

He  handed  his  cigar-case  to  the  briga- 
dier. Then  he  took  one  himself,  lighted  it 
at  the  smouldering  end  of  the  one  he  had 
taken  from  his  mouth,  was  about  to  throw 
the  stump  carelessly  down,  but,  suddenly 
recollecting  himself,  leaned  over  his  horse, 
and  dropped  it  carefully  a  few  inches  away 
from  the  face  of  a  dead  soldier.  Then, 
straightening  himself  in  the  saddle,  he 
shoved  his  horse  against  the  brigadier,  mov- 
ing him  a  little  further  on,  while  a  slight 
movement  of  his  hand  kept  the  staff  from 
following. 

"A  heavy  loss  here!  " 

"I  'm  afraid  so.  General." 

"It  couldn't  be  helped.  We  had  to  rush 
in  your  brigade  to  gain  time,  and  occupy 
the  enemy,  until  we  could  change  front." 

The  young  general  looked  at  the  shrewd, 
cold  eyes  of  his  chief. 

"  Change  front  ?"  he  echoed. 


CLARENCE.  103 

"Yes.  Before  a  gun  was  fired,  we  dis- 
covered that  the  enemy  was  in  complete  pos- 
session of  all  our  plans,  and  knew  every  de- 
tail of  our  forward  movement.  All  had  to 
be  changed." 

The  younger  man  now  instantly  under- 
stood the  incomprehensible  order  of  the  day 
before. 

The  general  of  division  continued,  with 
his  first  touch  of  official  formality,  — 

"  You  understand,  therefore,  General 
Brant,  that  in  the  face  of  this  extraordinary 
treachery,  the  utmost  vigilance  is  required, 
and  a  complete  surveillance  of  your  camp 
followers  and  civilians,  to  detect  the  actual 
spy  within  our  lines,  or  the  traitor  we  are 
harboring,  who  has  become  possessed  of  this 
information.  You  will  overhaul  your  bri- 
gade, and  weed  out  all  suspects,  and  in  the 
position  which  you  are  to  take  to-morrow, 
and  the  plantation  you  will  occupy,  you 
will  see  that  your  private  quarters,  as  well 
as  your  lines,  are  cleared  of  all  but  those 
you  can  vouch  for." 

He  reined  in  his  horse,  again  extended 
his  hand,  saluted,  and  rejoined  his  staff. 

Brigadier  -  General  Clarence  Brant  re- 
mained  for  a  moment  with  his  head  bent  in 


104  CLARENCE. 

thoughtful  contemplation  of  the  coolness  of 
his  veteran  chief  under  this  exciting  disclo- 
sure, and  the  strategy  with  which  he  had 
frustrated  the  traitor's  success.  Then  his 
eye  caught  the  sealed  packet  in  his  belt. 
He  mechanically  drew  it  out,  and  broke  the 
seal.  The  envelope  was  filled  with  papers 
and  memorandums.  But  as  he  looked  at 
them  his  face  darkened  and  his  brow  knit. 
He  glanced  quickly  around  him.  The  staff 
had  trotted  away;  the  captain  and  his  de- 
tail were  continuing  their  work  at  a  little 
distance.  He  took  a  long  breath,  for  he  was 
holding  in  his  hand  a  tracing  of  their  camp, 
even  of  the  position  he  was  to  occupy  to- 
morrow, and  a  detailed  account  of  the  move- 
ments, plans,  and  force  of  the  whole  divi- 
sion as  had  been  arranged  in  council  of  war 
the  day  before  the  battle!  But  there  was 
no  indication  of  the  writer  or  his  inten- 
tions. 

He  thrust  the  papers  hurriedly  back  into 
the  envelope,  but  placed  it,  this  time,  in  his 
breast.     He  galloped  towards  the  captain. 

"Let  me  see  again  the  officer  from  whom 
you  took  that  packet!  " 

The  captain  led  him  to  where  the  body 
lay,  with  others,  extended  more  decently  on 


CLARENCE.  105 

the  grass  awaiting  removal.  General  Brant 
with  difficulty  repressed  an  ejaculation. 

"Why,  it's  one  of  our  own  men,"  he 
said  quickly. 

"Yes,  General.  They  say  it 's  Lieutenant 
Wainwright,  a  regular,  of  the  paymaster- 
general's  department." 

"Then  what  was  he  doing  here?"  asked 
General  Brant  sternly. 

"I  can't  make  out,  sir,  unless  he  went  into 
the  last  advance  as  a  volunteer.  Wanted 
to  see  the  fight,  I  suppose.  He  was  a  dash- 
ing fellow,  a  West  Pointer,  —  and  a  South- 
erner, too,  — a  Virginian." 

"A  Southerner!  "  echoed  Brant  quickly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Search  him  again,"  said  Brant  quietly. 
He  had  recovered  his  usual  coolness,  and  as 
the  captain  again  examined  the  body,  he 
took  out  his  tablets  and  wrote  a  few  lines. 
It  was  an  order  to  search  the  quarters  of 
Lieutenant  Wainwright  and  bring  all  pa- 
pers, letters,  and  documents  to  him.  He 
then  beckoned  one  of  the  detail  towards 
him.  "Take  that  to  the  provost  marshal  at 
once.  Well,  Captain,"  he  added  calmly,  as 
the  officer  again  approached  him,  "what  do 
you  find?" 


106  CLARENCE. 

"Only  this,  sir,"  returned  the  captain, 
with  a  half  smile,  producing  a  small  photo- 
graph.    "I  suppose  it  was  overlooked,  too." 

He  handed  it  to  Brant. 

There  was  a  sudden  fixing  of  his  com- 
manding officer's  eyes,  but  his  face  did  not 
otherwise  change. 

"It's  the  usual  find,  General.  Always 
a  photograph!  But  this  time  a  handsome 
woman!  " 

"Very,"  said  Clarence  Brant  quietly.  It 
was  the  portrait  of  his  own  wife. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Neveetheless,  so  complete  was  his  con- 
trol of  voice  and  manner  that,  as  he  rode  on 
to  his  quarters,  no  one  would  have  dreamed 
that  General  Brant  had  just  looked  upon 
the  likeness  of  the  wife  from  whom  he  had 
parted  in  anger  four  years  ago.  Still  less 
would  they  have  suspected  the  strange  fear 
that  came  upon  him  that  in  some  way  she 
was  connected  with  the  treachery  he  had 
just  discovered.  He  had  heard  from  her 
only  once,  and  then  through  her  late  hus- 
band's lawyer,  in  regard  to  her  Calif ornian 
property,  and  believed  that  she  had  gone  to 
her  relations  in  Alabama,  where  she  had 
identified  herself  with  the  Southern  cause, 
even  to  the  sacrifice  of  her  private  fortune. 
He  had  heard  her  name  mentioned  in  the 
Southern  press  as  a  fascinating  society 
leader,  and  even  coadjutrix  of  Southern 
politicians,  —  but  he  had  no  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  she  had  taken  so  active  or  so  des- 
perate a  part  in  the  struggle.     He  tried  to 


108  CLARENCE. 

think  that  his  uneasiness  sprang  from  his 
recollection  of  the  previous  treachery  of  Cap- 
tain Pinckney,  and  the  part  that  she  had 
played  in  the  Californian  conspiracy,  al- 
though he  had  long  since  acquitted  her  of 
the  betrayal  of  any  nearer  trust.  But  there 
was  a  fateful  similarity  in  the  two  cases. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  this  Lieutenant 
Wainwright  was  a  traitor  in  the  camp,  — 
that  he  had  succumbed  to  the  usual  sophis- 
try of  his  class  in  regard  to  his  superior 
allegiance  to  his  native  State.  But  was 
there  the  inducement  of  another  emotion, 
or  was  the  photograph  only  the  souvenir  of 
a  fascinating  priestess  of  rebellion,  whom 
the  dead  man  had  met?  There  was  per- 
haps less  of  feeling  than  scorn  in  the  first 
suggestion,  but  he  was  nevertheless  relieved 
when  the  provost  marshal  found  no  other  in- 
criminating papers  in  Wainwright's  effects. 
Nor  did  he  reveal  to  the  division  general  the 
finding  of  the  photograph.  It  was  sufficient 
to  disclose  the  work  of  the  traitor  without 
adding  what  might  be  a  clue  to  his  wife's 
participation  in  it,  near  or  remote.  There 
was  risk  enough  in  the  former  course,  — ■ 
which  his  duty  made  imperative.  He  hardly 
dared  to  think  of  the  past  day's  slaughter, 


CLARENCE.  109 

which  —  there  was  no  doubt  now  —  had 
been  due  to  the  previous  work  of  the  spy, 
and  how  his  brigade  had  been  selected  — -  by 
the  irony  of  Fate  —  to  suffer  for  and  yet 
retrieve  it.  If  she  had  had  a  hand  in  this 
wicked  plot,  ought  he  to  spare  her?  Or  was 
his  destiny  and  hers  to  be  thus  monstrously 
linked  together? 

Luckily,  however,  the  expiation  of  the 
chief  offender  and  the  timely  discovery  of 
his  papers  enabled  the  division  commander 
to  keep  the  affair  discreetly  silent,  and  to 
enjoin  equal  secrecy  on  the  part  of  Brant. 
The  latter,  however,  did  not  relax  his  vigi- 
lance, and  after  the  advance  the  next  day 
he  made  a  minute  inspection  of  the  ground 
he  was  to  occupy,  its  approaches  and  con- 
nections with  the  outlying  country,  and 
the  rebel  lines;  increased  the  stringency  of 
picket  and  sentry  regulations,  and  exercised 
a  rigid  surveillance  of  non-combatants  and 
civilians  within  the  lines,  even  to  the  lowest 
canteener  or  camp  follower.  Then  he  turned 
his  attention  to  the  house  he  was  to  occupy 
as  his  headquarters. 

It  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  old  colonial 
planter's  house,  with  its  broad  veranda,  its 
great  detached  offices  and  negro  quarters, 


110  CLARENCE. 

and  had,  thus  far,  escaped  the  ravages  and 
billeting  of  the  war.  It  had  been  occupied 
by  its  owner  up  to  a  few  days  before  the 
engagement,  and  so  great  had  been  the  con- 
fidence of  the  enemy  in  their  success  that  it 
had  been  used  as  the  Confederate  headquar- 
ters on  the  morning  of  the  decisive  battle. 
Jasmine  and  rose,  unstained  by  the  sulphur 
of  gunpowder,  twined  around  its  ruined  col- 
mnns  and  half  hid  the  recessed  windows ;  the 
careless  flower  garden  was  still  in  its  unkempt 
and  unplucked  luxuriance;  the  courtyard 
before  the  stables  alone  showed  marks  of  the 
late  military  occupancy,  and  was  pulverized 
by  the  uneasy  horse-hoofs  of  the  waiting  staff. 
But  the  mingled  impress  of  barbaric  prodi- 
gality with  patriarchal  simplicity  was  still 
there  in  the  domestic  arrangements  of  a 
race  who  lived  on  half  equal  familiarity 
with  strangers  and  their  own  servants. 

The  negro  servants  still  remained,  with  a 
certain  cat-like  fidelity  to  the  place,  and 
adapted  themselves  to  the  Northern  invaders 
with  a  childlike  enjoyment  of  the  novelty  of 
change.  Brant,  nevertheless,  looked  them 
over  with  an  experienced  eye,  and  satisfied 
himself  of  their  trustworthiness;  there  was 
the  usual  number  of   "boys,"  gray -haired 


CLARENCE.  Ill 

and  grizzled  in  body  service,  and  the  "mam- 
mys  "  and  "aunties  "  of  the  kitchen.  There 
were  two  or  three  rooms  in  the  wing  which 
still  contained  private  articles,  pictures  and 
souvenirs  of  the  family,  and  a  "  young 
lady's  "  boudoir,  which  Brant,  with  charac- 
teristic delicacy,  kept  carefully  isolated  and 
intact  from  his  military  household,  and  ac- 
cessible only  to  the  family  servants.  The 
room  he  had  selected  for  himseK  was  near- 
est it,  —  a  small,  plainly  furnished  apart- 
ment, with  an  almost  conventual  simplicit}^ 
in  its  cold,  white  walls  and  draperies,  and 
the  narrow,  nun-like  bed.  It  struck  him 
that  it  might  have  belonged  to  some  prim 
elder  daughter  or  maiden  aunt,  who  had 
acted  as  housekeeper,  as  it  commanded  the 
wing  and  servants'  offices,  with  easy  access 
to  the  central  hall. 

There  followed  a  week  of  inactivity  in 
which  Brant  felt  a  singular  resemblance  in 
this  Southern  mansion  to  the  old  casa  at 
Robles.  The  afternoon  shadows  of  the  deep 
verandas  recalled  the  old  monastic  gloom 
of  the  Spanish  house,  which  even  the  pres- 
ence of  a  lounging  officer  or  waiting  orderly 
could  not  entirely  dissipate,  and  the  scent 
of  the  rose  and  jasmine  from  his  windows 


112  CLARENCE. 

overcame  him  with  sad  memories.  He  be- 
gan to  chafe  under  this  inaction,  and  long 
ao-ain  for  the  excitement  of  the  march  and 
bivouac,  —  in  which,  for  the  past  four  years, 
he  had  buried  his  past. 

He  was  sitting  one  afternoon  alone  before 
his  reports  and  dispatches,  when  this  influ- 
ence seemed  so  strong  that  he  half  impul- 
sively laid  them  aside  to  indulge  in  a  long 
reverie.  He  was  recalling  his  last  day  at 
Eobles,  the  early  morning  duel  with  Pinck- 
ney,  the  return  to  San  Francisco,  and  the 
sudden  resolution  which  sent  him  that  day 
across  the  continent  to  offer  his  services  to 
the  Government.  He  remembered  his  delay 
in  the  Western  town,  where  a  volunteer  regi- 
ment was  being  recruited,  his  entrance  into 
it  as  a  private,  his  rapid  selection,  through 
the  force  of  his  sheer  devotion  and  intelli- 
gent concentration,  to  the  captaincy  of  his 
company ;  his  swift  promotion  on  hard-fought 
fields  to  the  head  of  the  regiment,  and  the 
singular  success  that  had  followed  his  re- 
sistless energy,  which  left  him  no  time  to 
think  of  anything  but  his  duty.  The  sud- 
den intrusion  of  his  wife  upon  his  career 
now,  even  in  this  accidental  and  perhaps  in- 
nocent way,  had  seriously  unsettled  him. 


CLARENCE.  113 

The  shadows  were  growing  heavier  and 
deeper,  it  lacked  only  a  few  moments  of  the 
simset  bugle,  when  he  was  recalled  to  him- 
self by  that  singular  instinctive  conscious- 
ness, common  to  humanity,  of  being  intently 
looked  at.  He  turned  quickly,  —  the  door 
behind  him  closed  softly.  He  rose  and 
slipped  into  the  hall.  The  tall  figure  of  a 
woman  was  going  down  the  passage.  She 
was  erect  and  graceful;  but,  as  she  turned 
towards  the  door  leading  to  the  offices,  he 
distinctly  saw  the  gaudily  turbaned  head  and 
black  silhouette  of  a  negress.  Nevertheless, 
he  halted  a  moment  at  the  door  of  the  next 
room. 

"See  who  that  woman  is  who  has  just 
passed,  Mr.  Martin.  She  does  n't  seem  to 
belong  to  the  house." 

The  young  officer  rose,  put  on  his  cap,  and 
departed.     In  a  few  moments  he  returned. 

"  Was  she  tall,  sir,  of  a  good  figure,  and 
very  straight?" 

"Yes." 

"She  is  a  servant  of  our  neighbors,  the 
Manly s,  who  occasionally  visits  the  servants 
here.     A  mulatto,  I  think." 

Brant  reflected.  Many  of  the  mulattoes 
and  negresses  were  of  good  figure,  and  the 


114  CLARENCE. 

habit  of  carrying  burdens   on  their  heads 
gave  them  a  singularly  erect  carriage. 

The  lieutenant  looked  at  his  chief. 

"Have  you  any  orders  to  give  concerning 
her,  General?" 

"No,"  said  Brant,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
and  turned  away. 

The  officer  smiled.  It  seemed  a  good  story 
to  tell  at  mess  of  this  human  weakness  of 
his  handsome,  reserved,  and  ascetic -looking 
leader. 

A  few  mornings  afterwards  Brant  was 
interrupted  over  his  reports  by  the  almost 
abrupt  entrance  of  the  officer  of  the  day. 
His  face  was  flushed,  and  it  was  evident 
that  only  the  presence  of  his  superior  re- 
strained his  excitement.  He  held  a  paper 
in  his  hand. 

"  A  lady  presents  this  order  and  pass  from 
Washington,  countersigned  by  the  division 
general." 

"A  lady?" 

"Yes,  sir,  she  is  dressed  as  such.  But  she 
has  not  only  declined  the  most  ordinary 
civilities  and  courtesies  we  have  offered  her, 
but  she  has  insulted  Mr.  Martin  and  myself 
grossly,  and  demands  to  be  shown  to  you  — 
alone." 


CLARENCE.  115 

Brant  took  the  paper.  It  was  a  special 
order  from  the  President,  passing  Miss  Ma- 
tilda Faulkner  through  the  Federal  lines  to 
visit  her  uncle's  home,  known  as  "Gray 
Oaks,"  now  held  and  occupied  as  the  head- 
quarters of  Brant's  Brigade,  in  order  to  ar- 
range for  the  preservation  and  disposal  of 
certain  family  effects  and  private  property 
that  still  remained  there,  or  to  take  and 
carry  away  such  property ;  and  invoking  all 
necessary  aid  and  assistance  from  the  United 
States  forces  in  such  occupancy.  It  was 
countersigned  by  the  division  commander. 
It  was  perfectly  regular  and  of  undoubted 
authenticity.  He  had  heard  of  passes  of 
this  kind,  —  the  terror  of  the  army,  —  issued 
in  Washington  under  some  strange  control- 
ling influence  and  against  military  protest ; 
but  he  did  not  let  his  subordinate  see  the 
uneasiness  with  which  it  filled  him. 

"Show  her  in,"  he  said  quietly. 

But  she  had  already  entered,  brushing 
scornfully  past  the  officer,  and  drawing  her 
skirt  aside,  as  if  contaminated :  a  very  pretty 
Southern  girl,  scornful  and  red-lipped,  clad 
in  a  gray  riding-habit,  and  still  carrying  her 
riding-whip  clenched  ominously  in  her  slim, 
gauntleted  hand ! 


116  CLARENCE. 

"You  have  my  permit  in  your  hand,"  she 
said  brusquely,  hardly  raising*  her  eyes  to 
Brant.  "I  suppose  it 's  all  straight  enough, 
—  and  even  if  it  isn't,  I  don't  reckon  to  be 
kept  waiting  with  those  hirelings." 

"  Your  '  permit '  is  '  straight '  enough, 
Miss  Faulkner,"  said  Brant,  slowly  reading 
her  name  from  the  docmnent  before  him. 
"  But,  as  it  does  not  seem  to  include  jjermis- 
sion  to  insidt  my  officers,  you  will  perhaps 
allow  them  first  to  retire." 

He  made  a  sign  to  the  officer,  who  passed 
out  of  the  door. 

As  it  closed,  he  went  on,  in  a  gentle  but 
coldly  unimpassioned  voice,  — 

"  I  perceive  you  are  a  Southern  lady,  and 
therefore  I  need  not  remind  you  that  it  is 
not  considered  good  form  to  treat  even  the 
slaves  of  those  one  does  not  like  uncivilly, 
and  I  must,  therefore,  ask  you  to  keep  your 
active  animosity  for  myself." 

The  young  girl  lifted  her  eyes.  She 
had  evidently  not  expected  to  meet  a  man 
so  young,  so  handsome,  so  refined,  and  so 
coldly  invincible  in  manner.  Still  less  was 
she  prepared  for  that  kind  of  antagonism. 
In  keeping  up  her  preconcerted  attitude 
towards  the  "  Northern  hireling,"  she  had 


CLARENCE.  117 

been  met  with  official  brixsqueness,  contemp- 
tuous silence,  or  aggrieved  indignation,  — 
but  nothing  so  exasperating  as  this.  She 
even  fancied  that  this  elegant  but  sardonic- 
looking  soldier  was  mocking  her.  She  bit 
her  red  lip,  but,  with  a  scornful  gesture  of 
her  riding-whip,  said,  — 

"I  reckon  that  your  knowledge  of  South- 
ern ladies  is,  for  certain  reasons,  not  very 
extensive." 

"Pardon  me;  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
marrying  one." 

Apparently  more  exasperated  than  before, 
she  turned  upon  him  abruptly. 

"You  say  my  pass  is  all  right.  Then  I 
presume  I  may  attend  to  the  business  that 
brought  me  here." 

"  Certainly ;  but  you  will  forgive  me  if  I 
imagined  that  an  exjiression  of  contempt  for 
your  hosts  was  a  part  of  it." 

He  rang  a  bell  on  the  table.  It  was  re- 
sponded to  by  an  orderly. 

"Send  all  the  household  servants  here." 

The  room  was  presently  filled  with  the 
dusky  faces  of  the  negro  retainers.  Here 
and  there  was  the  gleaming  of  white  teeth, 
but  a  majority  of  the  assembly  wore  the  true 
negro  serious  acceptance  of  the  importance 


118  CLARENCE. 

of  "an  occasion."  One  or  two  even  affected 
an  official  and  soldierly  bearing.  And,  as 
lie  fully  expected,  there  were  several  glances 
of  significant  recognition  of  the  stranger. 

"  Yon  will  give,"  said  Brant  sternly, 
"every  aid  and  attention  to  the  wants  of 
this  young  lady,  who  is  here  to  represent 
the  interests  of  your  old  master.  As  she 
will  be  entirely  dependent  upon  you  in  all 
things  connected  with  her  visit  here,  see  to 
it  that  she  does  not  have  to  complain  to  me 
of  any  inattention,  —  or  be  obliged  to  ask 
for  other  assistance." 

As  Miss  Faulkner,  albeit  a  trifle  paler  in 
the  cheek,  but  as  scornful  as  ever,  was  about 
to  follow  the  servants  from  the  room,  Brant 
stopped  her,  with  a  coldly  courteous  gesture. 

"You  will  understand,  therefore,  Miss 
Faulkner,  that  you  have  your  wish,  and  that 
you  will  not  be  exposed  to  any  contact  with 
the  members  of  my  military  family,  nor  they 
with  you." 

"  Am  I  then  to  be  a  prisoner  in  this  house 
—  and  under  a  free  pass  of  your  —  Presi- 
dent?" she  said  indignantly. 

"  By  no  means !  You  are  free  to  come 
and  go,  and  see  whom  you  please.  I  have 
no  power  to  control  your  actions.  But  I 
have  the  power  to  control  theirs." 


CLARENCE.  119 

She  swept  furiously  from  the  room. 

"  That  is  quite  enough  to  fill  her  with  a 
desire  to  flirt  with  every  man  here,"  said 
Brant  to  himself,  with  a  faint  smile;  "  but 
I  fancy  they  have  had  a  taste  enough  of  her 
quality." 

Nevertheless  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  few 
lines  to  the  division  commander,  pointing 
out  that  he  had  already  placed  the  owner's 
private  property  under  strict  surveillance, 
that  it  was  cared  for  and  perfectly  preserved 
by  the  household  servants,  and  that  the  pass 
was  evidently  obtained  as  a  subterfuge. 

To  this  he  received  a  formal  reply,  regret- 
ting that  the  authorities  at  Washington  still 
found  it  necessary  to  put  this  kind  of  risk 
and  burden  on  the  army  in  the  field,  but 
that  the  order  emanated  from  the  highest 
authority,  and  must  be  strictly  obeyed.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  page  was  a  characteristic 
line  in  pencil  in  the  general's  own  hand  — 
"Not  the  kind  that  is  dangerous." 

A  flush  mounted  Brant's  cheeks,  as  if  it 
contained  not  only  a  hidden,  but  a  personal 
significance.  He  had  thought  of  his  own 
wife! 

Singularly  enough,  a  day  or  two  later,  at 
dinner,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  in- 


120  CLARENCE. 

tense  sectional  feeling  of  Sontliern  women, 
probably  induced  by  their  late  experiences. 
Brant,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  in  his  habit- 
ual abstraction,  was  scarcely  following  the 
somewhat  excited  diction  of  Colonel  Strange- 
ways,  one  of  his  staff. 

"No,  sir,"  reiterated  that  indignant  war- 
rior, "take  my  word  for  it!  A  Southern 
woman  isn't  to  be  trusted  on  this  point, 
whether  as  a  sister,  sweetheart,  or  wife. 
And  when  she  is  trusted,  she  's  bound  to 
get  the  better  of  the  man  in  any  of  those 
relations  !  " 

The  dead  silence  that  followed,  the  omi- 
nous joggle  of  a  glass  at  the  speaker's 
elbow,  the  quick,  sympathetic  glance  that 
Brant  instinctively  felt  was  directed  at  his 
own  face,  and  the  abrupt  change  of  subject, 
could  not  but  arrest  his  attention,  even  if 
he  had  overlooked  the  speech.  His  face, 
however,  betrayed  nothing.  It  had  never, 
however,  occurred  to  him  before  that  his 
family  affairs  might  be  known  —  neither  had 
he  ever  thought  of  keeping  them  a  secret. 
It  seemed  so  purely  a  personal  and  private 
misfortune,  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of 
its  having  any  public  interest.  And  even 
now  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  what  he  be- 


CLARENCE.  121 

lieved  was  his  sensitiveness  to  mere  conven- 
tional criticism,  which,  with  the  instinct  of 
a  proud  man,  he  had  despised. 

He  was  not  far  wrong  in  his  sardonic  in- 
tuition of  the  effect  of  his  prohibition  upon 
Miss  Faulkner's  feelings.  Certainly  that 
young  lady,  when  not  engaged  in  her  mys- 
terious occupation  of  arranging  her  uncle's 
effects,  occasionally  was  seen  in  the  garden, 
and  in  the  woods  beyond.  Although  her 
presence  was  the  signal  for  the  "oblique" 
of  any  lounging  "shoulder  strap,"  or  the 
vacant  "front"  of  a  posted  sentry,  she 
seemed  to  regard  their  occasional  jsroximity 
with  less  active  disfavor.  Once,  when  she 
had  mounted  the  wall  to  gather  a  magnolia 
blossom,  the  chair  by  which  she  had  as- 
cended rolled  over,  leaving  her  on  the  wall. 
At  a  signal  from  the  guard-room,  two  sap- 
pers and  miners  appeared  carrying  a  scaling- 
ladder,  which  they  placed  silently  against 
the  wall,  and  as  silently  withdrew.  On 
another  occasion,  the  same  spirited  young 
lady,  wliom  Brant  was  satisfied  would  have 
probably  imperiled  her  life  under  fire  in 
devotion  to  her  cause,  was  brought  igno- 
miniously  to  bay  in  the  field  by  that  most 
appalling  of  domestic  animals,  the  wander- 


122  CLARENCE. 

ing  and  untrammeled  cow !  Brant  could  not 
help  smiling-  as  he  heard  the  quick,  harsh  call 
to  "Turn  out,  guard/'  saw  the  men  march 
stolidly  with  fixed  bayonets  to  the  vicinity 
of  the  affrighted  animal,  who  fled,  leaving 
the  fair  stranger  to  walk  shamefacedly  to 
the  house.  He  was  surprised,  however,  that 
she  should  have  halted  before  his  door,  and 
with  tremulous  indignation,  said,  — 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  chivalrousness 
in  turning  a  defenseless  woman  into  ridi- 
cule." 

"I  regret,  Miss  Faulkner,"  began  Brant 
gravely,  "that  you  should  believe  that  I  am 
able  to  control  the  advances  of  farmyard 
cattle  as  easily  as" —  But  he  stopped,  as 
he  saw  that  the  angry  flash  of  her  blue  eyes, 
as  she  darted  past  him,  was  set  in  tears. 
A  little  remorseful  on  the  following  day,  he 
added  a  word  to  his  ordinary  cap-lifting 
when  she  went  by,  but  she  retained  a  re- 
proachful silence.  Later  in  the  day,  he 
received  from  her  servant  a  respectful  re- 
quest for  an  interview,  and  was  relieved  to 
find  that  she  entered  his  j)resence  with  no 
trace  of  her  former  aggression,  but  rather 
with  the  resignation  of  a  deeply  injured, 
yet  not  entirely  unforgiving,  woman. 


CLARENCE.  123 

"I  thought,"  she  began  eohlly;  "that  I 
ought  to  inform  you  that  I  would  probably 
be  able  to  conclude  my  business  here  by  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  that  you  would 
then  be  relieved  of  my  presence.  I  am 
aware  —  indeed,"  she  added,  bitterly,  "I 
could  scarcely  help  perceiving,  that  it  has 
been  an  exceedingly  irksome  one." 

"I  trust,"  began  Brant  coldly,  "that  no 
gentleman  of  my  command  has  "  — 

"No!" 

She  interrupted  him  quickly,  with  a  re- 
turn of  her  former  manner,  and  a  passionate 
sweep  of  the  hand. 

"Do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I 
am  speaking  —  that  I  am  even  thinking  — 
of  them?     What  are  they  to  me ?  " 

"Thank  you.  I  am  glad  to  know  that 
they  are  nothing ;  and  that  I  may  now  trust 
that  you  have  consulted  my  wishes,  and  have 
reserved  your  animosity  solely  for  me,"  re- 
turned Brant  quietly.  "That  being  so,  I 
see  no  reason  for  your  hurrying  your  depart- 
ure in  the  least." 

She  rose  instantly. 

"I  have,"  she  said  slowly,  controlling 
herself  with  a  slight  effort,  "found  some  one 
who  will  take  my  duty  off  my  hands.     She 


124  CLARENCE. 

is  a  servant  of  one  of  your  neighbors,  — 
who  is  an  old  friend  of  my  uncle's.  The 
woman  is  familiar  with  the  house,  and  our 
private  property.  I  will  give  her  full  in- 
structions to  act  for  me,  and  even  an  autho- 
rization in  writing,  if  you  prefer  it.  She 
is  already  in  the  habit  of  coming  here ;  but 
her  visits  will  give  you  very  little  trouble. 
And,  as  she  is  a  slave,  or,  as  you  call  it,  I 
believe,  a  chattel,  she  will  be  already  quite 
accustomed  to  the  treatment  which  her  class 
are  in  the  habit  of  receiving  from  Northern 
hands." 

Without  waiting  to  perceive  the  effect  of 
her  Parthian  shot,  she  swept  proudly  out  of 
the  room. 

"I  wonder  what  she  means,"  mused  Brant, 
as  her  quick  step  died  away  in  the  passage. 
"  One  thing  is  certain,  —  a  woman  like  that 
is  altogether  too  impulsive  for  a  spy." 

Later,  in  the  twilight,  he  saw  her  walk- 
ing in  the  garden.  There  was  a  figure  at 
her  side.  A  little  curious,  he  examined  it 
more  closely  from  his  window.  It  was  al- 
ready familiar  to  him,  —  the  erect,  shapely 
form  of  his  neighbor's  servant.  A  thought- 
ful look  passed  over  his  face  as  he  muttered, 
—  "So  this  is  to  be  her  deputy." 


CHAPTER  IIL 

Called  to  a  general  council  of  officers 
at  divisional  headquarters  the  next  day, 
Brant  had  little  time  for  further  specu- 
lation regarding  his  strange  guest,  but  a 
remark  from  the  division  commander,  that 
he  preferred  to  commit  the  general  plan  of 
a  movement  then  under  discussion  to  their 
memories  rather  than  to  written  orders  in  the 
ordinary  routine,  seemed  to  show  that  his 
chief  still  suspected  the  existence  of  a  spy. 
He,  therefore,  told  him  of  his  late  interview 
with  Miss  Faulkner,  and  her  probable  with- 
drawal in  favor  of  a  mulatto  neighbor.  The 
division  commander  received  the  informa- 
tion with  indifference. 

"They're  much  too  clever  to  employ  a 
hussy  like  that,  who  shows  her  hand  at 
every  turn,  either  as  a  spy  or  a  messenger 
of  spies, —  and  the  mulattoes  are  too  stupid, 
to  say  nothing  of  their  probable  fidelity  to 
us.  No,  General,  if  we  are  watched,  it  is 
by  an  eagle,  and  not  a  mocking-bird.     Miss 


126  CLARENCE. 

Faulkner  has  nothing  worse  about  her  than 
her  tongue;  and  there  is  n't  the  nigger  blood 
in  the  whole  South  that  would  risk  a  noose 
for  her,  or  for  any  of  their  masters  or  mis- 
tresses ! " 

It  was,  therefore,  perhaps,  with  some 
mitigation  of  his  usual  critical  severity  that 
he  saw  her  walking  before  him  alone  in  the 
lane  as  he  rode  home  to  quarters.  She  was 
apparently  lost  in  a  half -impatient,  half- 
moody  reverie,  which  even  the  trotting  hoof- 
beats  of  his  own  and  his  orderly's  horse  had 
not  disturbed.  From  time  to  time  she  struck 
the  myrtle  hedge  beside  her  with  the  head 
of  a  large  flower  which  hung  by  its  stalk 
from  her  listless  hands,  or  held  it  to  her 
face  as  if  to  inhale  its  perfume.  Dismissing 
his  orderly  by  a  side  path,  he  rode  gently 
forward,  but,  to  his  surprise,  without  turn- 
ing, or  seeming  to  be  aware  of  his  presence, 
she  quickened  her  pace,  and  even  appeared 
to  look  from  side  to  side  for  some  avenue  of 
escape.  If  only  to  mend  matters,  he  was 
obliged  to  ride  quickly  forward  to  her  side, 
where  he  threw  himself  from  his  horse, 
flung  the  reins  on  his  arm,  and  began  to 
walk  beside  her.  She  at  first  turned  a 
slightly  flushed  cheek  away  from  him,  and 


CLARENCE.  127 

then  looked  up  with  a  purely  simulated  start 
of  surprise. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  gently,  "that  I 
am  the  first  to  break  my  own  orders  in  re- 
gard to  any  intrusion  on  your  privacy.  But 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  I  could  give  you  any 
aid  whatever  in  the  change  you  think  of 
making." 

He  was  quite  sincere,  —  had  been  touched 
by  her  manifest  disturbance,  and,  desjjite 
his  masculine  relentlessness  of  criticism,  he 
had  an  intuition  of  feminine  suffering  that 
was  in  itself  feminine. 

"  Meaning,  that  you  are  m  a  hurry  to  get 
rid  of  me,"  she  said  curtly,  without  raising 
her  eyes. 

"Meaning  that  I  only  wish  to  expedite  a 
business  which  I  think  is  unpleasant  to  you, 
but  which  I  believe  you  have  undertaken 
from  unselfish  devotion." 

The  scant  expression  of  a  reserved  nature 
is  sometimes  more  attractive  to  women  than 
the  most  fluent  vivacity.  Possibly  there 
was  also  a  melancholy  grace  in  this  sardonic 
soldier's  manner  that  affected  her,  for  she 
looked  up,  and  said  impulsively,  — • 

"You  think  so?" 

But  he  met  her  eager  eyes  with  some  sur- 
prise. 


128  CLARENCE. 

"I  certainly  do,"  lie  replied  more  coldly. 
"  I  can  imagine  your  feelings  on  finding  your 
uncle's  home  in  the  possession  of  your  ene- 
mies, and  your  presence  under  the  family 
roof  only  a  sufferance.  I  can  hardly  believe 
it  a  pleasure  to  you,  or  a  task  you  would 
have  accepted  for  yourself  alone." 

"But,"  she  said,  turning  towards  him 
wickedly,  "what  if  I  did  it  only  to  excite 
my  revenge;  what  if  I  knew  it  would  give 
me  courage  to  incite  my  people  to  carry  war 
into  your  own  homes;  to  make  you  of  the 
North  feel  as  I  feel,  and  taste  our  bitter- 
ness?" 

"I  could  easily  understand  that,  too,"  he 
returned,  with  listless  coldness,  "although 
I  don't  admit  that  revenge  is  an  unmixed 
pleasure,  even  to  a  woman." 

"A  woman!"  she  repeated  indignantly. 
"There  is  no  sex  in  a  war  like  this." 

"You  are  spoiling  your  flower,"  he  said 
quietly.  "It  is  very  pretty,  and  a  native 
one,  too;  not  an  invader,  or  even  trans- 
planted.    May  I  look  at  it?  " 

She  hesitated,  half  recoiling  for  an  in- 
stant, and  her  hand  trembled.  Then,  sud- 
denly and  abruj)tly  she  said,  with  a  hysteric 
little  laugh,  "Take  it,  then,"  and  almost 
thrust  it  in  his  hand. 


CLARENCE.  129 

It  certainly  was  a  pretty  flower,  not  un- 
like a  lily  in  appearance,  with  a  bell-like 
Clip  and  long"  anthers  covered  with  a  fine 
pollen,  like  red  dust.  As  he  lifted  it  to  his 
face,  to  inhale  its  perfume,  she  uttered  a 
slight  cry,  and  snatched  it  from  his  hand. 

"There!"  she  said,  with  the  same  ner- 
vous laugh.  "I  knew  you  would;  I  ought 
to  have  warned  you.  The  pollen  comes  off 
so  easily,  and  leaves  a  stain.  And  you  've 
got  some  on  your  cheek.  Look!  "  she  con- 
tinued, taking  her  handkerchief  from  her 
pocket  and  wiping  his  cheek;  "see  there!  " 
The  delicate  cambric  showed  a  blood-red 
streak. 

"It  grows  in  a  swamp,"  she  continued, 
in  the  same  excited  strain;  "we  call  it 
dragon's  teeth,  —  like  the  kind  that  was 
sown  in  the  story,  you  know.  We  children 
used  to  find  it,  and  then  paint  our  faces  and 
lips  with  it.  We  called  it  our  rouge.  I 
was  almost  tempted  to  try  it  again  when  I 
found  it  just  now.  It  took  me  back  so  to 
the  old  times." 

Following  her  odd  manner  rather  than 
her  words,  as  she  turned  her  face  towards 
him  suddenly.  Brant  was  inclined  to  think 
that  she  had  tried  it  already,  so  scarlet  was 


130  CLARENCE. 

her  clieek.  But  it  presently  paled  again  un- 
der his  cold  scrutiny. 

"You  must  miss  the  old  times,"  he  said 
calmly.  "I  am  afraid  you  found  very  little 
of  them  left,  except  in  these  flowers." 

"And  hardly  these,"  she  said  bitterly. 
"Your  troops  had  found  a  way  through  the 
marsh,  and  had  trampled  down  the  bushes." 

Brant's  brow  clouded.  He  remembered 
that  the  brook,  which  had  run  red  during 
the  fight,  had  lost  itself  in  this  marsh.  It 
did  not  increase  his  liking  for  this  beautiful 
but  blindly  vicious  animal  at  his  side,  and 
even  his  momentary  pity  for  her  was  fading 
fast.  She  was  incorrigible.  They  walked 
on  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"You  said,"  she  began  at  last,  in  a  gen- 
tler and  even  hesitating  voice,  "that  your 
wife  was  a  Southern  woman." 

He  checked  an  irritated  start  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"I  believe  I  did,"  he  said  coldly,  as  if  he 
regretted  it. 

"And  of  course  you  taught  her  your  gos- 
pel, —  the  gospel  according  to  St.  Lincoln. 
Oh,  I  know,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  as  if 
conscious  of  his  irritation  and  seeking  to 
a.llay  it.     "  She  was  a  woman  and  loved  you, 


CLARENCE.  131 

and  thought  with  your  thoughts  and  saw- 
only  with  your  eyes.  Yes,  that 's  the  way 
with  us, — I  suppose  we  all  do  it!"  she 
added  bitterly. 

"She  had  her  own  opinions,"  said  Brant 
briefly,  as  he  recovered  himself. 

Nevertheless,  his  manner  so  decidedly 
closed  all  further  discussion  that  there  was 
nothing  left  for  the  young  girl  but  silence. 
But  it  was  broken  by  her  in  a  few  moments 
in  her  old  contemptuous  voice  and  manner. 

"Pray  don't  trouble  yourself  to  accom- 
pany me  any  further.  General  Brant.  Un- 
less, of  course,  you  are  afraid  I  may  come 
across  some  of  your  —  your  soldiers.  I 
promise  you  I  won't  eat  them." 

"I  am  afraid  you  must  suffer  my  com- 
pany a  little  longer,  Miss  Faullmer,  on 
account  of  those  same  soldiers,"  returned 
Brant  gravely.  "You  may  not  know  that 
this  road,  in  which  I  find  you,  takes  you 
through  a  cordon  of  pickets.  If  you  were 
alone  you  woidd  be  stopped,  questioned, 
and,  failing  to  give  the  password,  you 
would  be  tletained,  sent  to  the  guard-house, 
and"  —  he  stopped,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on 
her  keenly  as  he  added,  "and  searched." 

"You  would  not  dare   to   search  a  wo- 


132  CLARENCE. 

man!"  she  said  indignantly,  although  her 
flush  gave  way  to  a  slight  pallor. 

"You  said  just  now  that  there  should  be 
no  sex  in  a  war  like  this,"  returned  Brant 
carelessly,  but  without  abating  his  scruti- 
nizing gaze. 

"Then  it  is  war?  "  she  said  quickly,  with 
a  white,  significant  face. 

His  look  of  scrutiny  turned  to  one  of 
puzzled  wonder.  But  at  the  same  moment 
there  was  the  flash  of  a  bayonet  in  the 
hedge,  a  voice  called  "Halt!  "  and  a  soldier 
stepped  into  the  road. 

General  Brant  advanced,  met  the  salute 
of  the  picket  with  a  few  formal  words,  and 
then  turned  towards  his  fair  companion,  as 
another  soldier  and  a  sergeant  joined  the 
group. 

"Miss  Faulkner  is  new  to  the  camp,  took 
the  wrong  turning,  and  was  unwittingly 
leaving  the  lines  when  I  joined  her."  He 
fixed  his  eyes  intently  on  her  now  colorless 
face,  but  she  did  not  return  his  look.  "  You 
will  show  her  the  shortest  way  to  quarters," 
he  continued,  to  the  sergeant,  "and  should 
she  at  any  time  again  lose  her  way,  you  will 
again  conduct  her  home,  —  but  without  de- 
taining or  reporting  her." 


CLARENCE.  133 

He  lifted  his  cap,  remounted  his  horse, 
and  rode  away,  as  the  young-  girl,  with  a 
proud,  indifferent  step,  moved  down  the 
road  with  the  sergeant.  A  mounted  officer 
passed  him  and  saluted,  —  it  was  one  of 
his  own  staff.  From  some  strange  instinct, 
he  knew  that  he  had  witnessed  the  scene, 
and  from  some  equally  strange  intuition  he 
was  annoyed  by  it.  But  he  continued  his 
way,  visiting  one  or  two  outposts,  and  re- 
turned by  a  long  detour  to  his  quarters.  As 
he  stepj)ed  upon  the  veranda  he  saw  Miss 
Faulkner  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  talk- 
ing with  some  one  across  the  hedge.  By 
the  aid  of  his  glass  he  could  recognize  the 
shapely  figure  of  the  mulatto  woman  which 
he  had  seen  before.  But  by  its  aid  he  also 
discovered  that  she  was  carrying  a  flower 
exactly  like  the  one  which  Miss  Faulkner 
still  held  in  her  hand.  Had  she  been  with 
Miss  Faulkner  in  the  lane,  and  if  so,  why 
had  she  disappeared  when  he  came  up? 
Impelled  by  something  stronger  than  mere 
curiosity,  he  walked  quickly  down  the  gar- 
den, but  she  evidently  had  noticed  him,  for 
she  as  quickly  disappeared.  Not  caring  to 
meet  Miss  Faulkner  again,  he  retraced  his 
steps,  resolving  that  he  would,  on  the  first 


134  CLARENCE. 

oijportunity,  personally  examine  and  inter- 
rogate tliis  new  visitor.  For  if  slie  were  to 
take  Miss  Faulkner's  place  in  a  subordinate 
capacity,  this  precaution  was  clearly  within 
his  rights. 

He  reentered  his  room  and  seated  himself 
at  his  desk  before  the  dispatches,  orders, 
and  reports  awaiting  him.  He  found  him- 
self, however,  working  half  mechanically, 
and  recurring  to  his  late  interview  with 
Miss  Faulkner  in  the  lane.  If  she  had  any 
inclination  to  act  the  spy,  or  to  use  her  po- 
sition here  as  a  means  of  communicating 
with  the  enemy's  lines,  he  thought  he  had 
thoroughly  frightened  her.  Nevertheless, 
now,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  inclined  to 
accept  his  chief's  opinion  of  her.  She  was 
not  only  too  clumsy  and  inexperienced,  but 
she  totally  lacked  the  self-restraint  of  a 
spy.  Her  nervous  agitation  in  the  lane  was 
due  to  something  more  disturbing  than  his 
mere  possible  intrusion  upon  her  confidences 
with  the  mulatto.  The  significance  of  her 
question,  "Then  it  is  war?"  was  at  best 
a  threat,  and  that  implied  hesitation.  He 
recalled  her  strange  allusion  to  his  wife; 
was  it  merely  the  outcome  of  his  own  foolish 
confession  on  their  first  interview,  or  was  it 


CLARENCE.  135 

a  concealed  ironical  taunt?  Being  satisfied, 
however,  that  she  was  not  likely  to  imperil 
his  public  duty  in  any  way,  he  was  angry 
with  himself  for  speculating  further.  But, 
although  he  still  felt  towards  her  the  same 
antagonism  she  had  at  first  provoked,  he  was 
conscious  that  she  was  beginning  to  exercise 
a  strange  fascination  over  him. 

Dismissing  her  at  last  with  an  effort,  he 
finished  his  work  and  then  rose,  and  unlock- 
ing a  closet,  took  out  a  small  dispatch-box, 
to  which  he  intended  to  intrust  a  few  more 
important  orders  and  memoranda.  As  he 
opened  it  with  a  key  on  his  watch-chain,  he 
was  struck  with  a  faint  pei-fume  that  seemed 
to  come  from  it,  —  a  perfume  that  he  re- 
membered. Was  it  the  smell  of  the  flower 
that  Miss  Faulkner  carried,  or  the  scent  of 
the  handkerchief  with  which  she  had  wiped 
his  cheek,  or  a  mingling  of  both?  Or  was 
he  under  some  spell  to  think  of  that  wretched 
girl,  and  her  witch-like  flower?  He  leaned 
over  the  box  and  suddenly  started.  Upon 
the  outer  covering  of  a  dispatch  was  a  sin- 
gular blood-red  streak  I  He  examined  it 
closely,  —  it  was  the  powdery  stain  of  the 
lily  pollen ,  —  exactly  as  he  had  seen  it  on 
her  handkerchief. 


136  CLARENCE. 

There  could  be  no  mistake.  He  passed 
his  finger  over  the  stain ;  he  could  still  feel 
the  slippery,  infinitesimal  powder  of  the 
pollen.  It  was  not  there  when  he  had  closed 
the  box  that  morning- ;  it  was  impossible  that 
it  should  be  there  unless  the  box  had  been 
opened  in  his  absence.  He  reexamined  the 
contents  of  the  box;  the  papers  were  all 
there.  More  than  that,  they  were  papers 
of  no  importance  except  to  him  personally ; 
contained  no  plans  nor  key  to  any  military 
secret ;  he  had  been  far  too  wise  to  intrust 
any  to  the  accidents  of  this  alien  house. 
The  prying  intruder,  whoever  it  was,  had 
gained  nothing!  But  there  was  unmistak- 
ably the  attempt !  And  the  existence  of  a 
would-be  spy  within  the  purlieus  of  the 
house  was  equally  clear. 

He  called  an  officer  from  the  next  room. 

"Has  any  one  been  here  since  my  ab- 
sence?" 

"No,  General." 

"Has  any  one  passed  through  the  hall?  " 

He  had  fully  anticipated  the  answer,  as 
the  subaltern  replied,  "Only  the  women 
servants." 

He  reentered  the  room.  Closing  the  door, 
he  again  carefully  examined  the  box,  his 


CLARENCE.  137 

table,  the  papers  upon  it,  tlie  chair  before 
it,  and  even  the  Chinese  matting  on  the 
floor,  for  any  further  indication  of  the  pol- 
len. It  hardly  seemed  possible  that  any  one 
could  have  entered  the  room  with  the  flower 
in  their  hand  without  scattering-  some  of  the 
tell-tale  dust  elsewhere ;  it  was  too  large  a 
flower  to  be  worn  on  the  breast  or  in  the 
hair.  Again,  no  one  would  have  dared  to 
linger  there  long  enough  to  have  made  an 
examination  of  the  box,  with  an  officer  in 
the  next  room,  and  the  sergeant  passing. 
The  box  had  been  removed,  and  the  exami- 
nation made  elsewhere ! 

An  idea  seized  him.  Miss  Faulkner  was 
still  absent,  the  mulatto  had  apparently 
gone  home.  He  quickly  mounted  the  stair- 
case, but  instead  of  entering  his  room, 
turned  suddenly  aside  into  the  wing  which 
had  been  reserved.  The  first  door  yielded 
as  he  turned  its  knob  gently  and  entered  a 
room  which  he  at  once  recognized  as  the 
"young  lady's  boudoir."  But  the  dusty 
and  draped  furniture  had  been  rearranged 
and  uncovered,  and  the  apartment  bore 
every  sign  of  present  use.  Yet,  although 
there  was  unmistakable  evidence  of  its  being 
used  by  a  person  of  taste  and  refinement,  he 


138  .  CLARENCE. 

was  surprised  to  see  that  the  garments  hang- 
ing in  an  open  press  were  such  as  were  used 
by  negro  servants,  and  that  a  gaudy  hand- 
kerchief such  as  housemaids  used  for  tur- 
bans was  lying  on  the  pretty  silk  coverlet. 
He  did  not  linger  over  these  details,  but 
cast  a  rapid  glance  round  the  room.  Then 
his  eyes  became  fixed  on  a  fanciful  writing- 
desk,  which  stood  by  the  window.  For,  in 
a  handsome  vase  placed  on  its  level  top,  and 
drooping  on  a  portfolio  below,  hung  a  clus- 
ter of  the  very  flowers  that  Miss  Faulkner 
had  carried! 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

It  seemed  plain  to  Brant  tliat  tlie  dis- 
patcli-box  had  been  conveyed  here  and 
opened  for  security  on  this  desk,  and  in  the 
hurry  of  examining  the  papers  the  flower 
had  been  jostled  and  the  fallen  grains  of 
pollen  overlooked  by  the  spy.  There  were 
one  or  two  freckles  of  red  on  the  desk,  which 
made  this  accident  appear  the  more  proba- 
ble. But  he  was  equally  struck  by  another 
circumstance.  The  desk  stood  immediately 
before  the  window.  As  he  glanced  mechani- 
cally from  it,  he  was  surprised  to  see  that 
it  commanded  an  extensive  view  of  the  slope 
below  the  eminence  on  which  the  house 
stood,  even  beyond  his  furthest  line  of  pick- 
ets. The  vase  of  flowers,  each  of  which 
was  nearly  as  large  as  a  magnolia  blossom, 
and  striking  in  color,  occupied  a  central 
position  before  it,  and  no  doubt  could  be 
quite  distinctly  seen  from  a  distance.  From 
this  circumstance  he  could  not  resist  the 
strong  impression  that  this  fateful  and  ex- 


140  CLARENCE. 

traordinary  blossom,  carried  by  Miss  Faulk- 
ner and  tlie  mulatto,  and  so  strikingly  "in 
evidence  "  at  the  window,  was  in  some  way 
a  signal.  Obeying  an  impulse  which  he  was 
conscious  had  a  half  superstitious  founda- 
tion, he  carefully  lifted  the  vase  from  its 
position  before  the  window,  and  placed  it 
on  a  side  table.  Then  he  cautiously  slipped 
from  the  room. 

But  he  could  not  easily  shake  off  the  per- 
plexity which  the  occurrence  had  caused, 
although  he  was  satisfied  that  it  was  fraught 
with  no  military  or  strategic  danger  to  his 
command,  and  that  the  unknown  spy  had 
obtained  no  information  whatever.  Yet  he 
was  forced  to  admit  to  himself  that  he  was 
more  concerned  in  his  attempts  to  justify 
the  conduct  of  Miss  Faulkner  with  this  later 
revelation.  It  was  quite  possible  that  the 
dispatch-box  had  been  purloined  by  some 
one  else  during  her  absence  from  the  house, 
as  the  presence  of  the  mulatto  servant  in  his 
room  would  have  been  less  suspicious  than 
hers.  There  was  really  little  evidence  to 
connect  Miss  Faulkner  with  the  actual  out- 
rage, —  rather  might  not  the  real  spy  have 
taken  advantage  of  her  visit  here,  to  throw 
suspicion  upon  her?     He  remembered  her 


CLARENCE.  141 

singular  manner,  —  the  strange  inconsistency 
with  which  she  had  forced  this  flower  upon 
him.  She  would  hardly  have  done  so  had 
she  been  conscious  of  its  having  so  serious 
an  import.  Yet,  what  was  the  secret  of  her 
manifest  agitation?  A  sudden  inspiration 
flashed  across  his  mind;  a  smile  came  upon 
his  lips.  She  was  in  love!  The  enemy's 
line  contained  some  sighing  Strephon  of  a 
young  subaltern  with  whom  she  was  in  com- 
munication, and  for  whom  she  had  under- 
taken this  quest.  The  flower  was  their 
language  of  correspondence,  no  doubt.  It 
explained  also  the  young  girl's  animosity 
against  the  younger  officers,  —  his  adversa- 
ries ;  against  himself,  —  their  commander. 
He  had  previously  wondered  why,  if  she 
were  indeed  a  spy,  she  had  not  chosen,  upon 
some  equally  specious  order  from  Washing- 
ton, the  headquarters  of  the  division  com- 
mander, whose  secrets  were  more  valuable. 
This  was  explained  by  the  fact  that  she  was 
neai-er  the  lines  and  her  lover  in  her  present 
abode.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  was  making 
excuses  for  her,  —  he  believed  himself  only 
just.  The  recollection  of  what  she  had  said 
of  the  power  of  love,  albeit  it  had  hurt  him 
cruelly  at  the  time,  was  now  clearer  to  him. 


142  CLARENCE. 

and  even  seemed  to  mitigate  lier  offense. 
She  would  be  here  but  a  day  or  two  longer; 
he  could  afford  to  wait  without  interrogating 
her. 

But  as  to  the  real  intruder,  spy  or  thief, 
—  that  was  another  affair,  and  quickly  set- 
tled. He  gave  an  order  to  the  officer  of  the 
day  peremptorily  forbidding  the  entrance 
of  alien  servants  or  slaves  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  headquarters.  Any  one  thus 
trespassing  was  to  be  brought  before  him. 
The  officer  looked  surprised,  he  even  fancied 
disappointed.  The  graces  of  the  midatto 
woman's  figure  had  evidently  not  been 
thrown  away  upon  his  subalterns. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  when  he  was  mount- 
ing his  horse  for  a  round  of  inspection,  he 
was  surprised  to  see  Miss  Faulkner,  accom- 
panied by  the  mulatto  woman,  running  hur- 
riedly to  the  house.  He  had  forgotten  his 
late  order  until  he  saw  the  latter  halted  by 
the  sentries,  but  the  young  girl  came  flying 
on,  regardless  of  her  companion.  Her  skirt 
was  held  in  one  hand,  her  straw  hat  had 
fallen  back  in  her  flight,  and  was  caught 
only  by  a  ribbon  around  her  swelling  throat, 
and  her  loosened  hair  lay  in  a  black  rijjpled 
loop  on  one  shoulder.    For  an  instant  Brant 


CLARENCE.  143 

thought  that  she  was  seeking  him  in  indig- 
nation at  his  order,  but  a  second  look  at  her 
set  face,  eager  eyes,  and  parted  scarlet  lips, 
showed  him  that  she  had  not  even  noticed 
him  in  the  concentration  of  her  purpose. 
She  swept  by  him  into  the  hall,  he  heard 
the  swish  of  her  skirt  and  rapid  feet  on 
the  stairs,  — ■  she  was  gone.  What  had  hap- 
pened, or  was  this  another  of  her  moods  ? 

But  he  was  called  to  himself  by  the  ap- 
parition of  a  corporal  standing  before  him, 
with  the  mulatto  woman,  —  the  first  capture 
under  his  order.  She  was  tall,  well-formed, 
but  unmistakably  showing  the  negro  type, 
even  in  her  small  features.  Her  black  eyes 
were  excited,  but  unintelligent ;  her  manner 
dogged,  but  with  the  obstinacy  of  half- 
conscious  stupidity.  Brant  felt  not  only 
disappointed,  but  had  a  singular  impression 
that  she  was  not  the  same  woman  that  he 
had  first  seen.  Yet  there  was  the  tall, 
graceful  figure,  the  dark  profile,  and  the 
turbaned  head  that  he  had  once  followed 
down  the  passage  by  his  room. 

Her  story  was  as  stupidly  simple.  She 
had  known  "Missy"  from  a  chile!  She  had 
just  traipsed  over  to  see  her  that  afternoon ; 
they  were  walking  together  when  the  sojers 


144  CLARENCE. 

stopped  her.  She  had  never  been  stopped 
before,  even  by  "the  patter  rollers."  ^  Her 
old  massa  (Manly)  had  gib  leaf  to  go  see 
Miss  Tilly,  and  had  n't  said  nuffin  about  no 
"orders." 

More  annoyed  than  he  cared  to  confess, 
Brant  briefly  dismissed  her  with  a  warning. 
As  he  cantered  down  the  slope  the  view  of 
the  distant  pickets  recalled  the  window  in 
the  wing,  and  he  turned  in  his  saddle  to 
look  at  it.  There  it  was  —  the  largest  and 
most  dominant  window  in  that  part  of  the 
building  —  and  within  it,  a  distinct  and 
vivid  object  almost  filling  the  opening,  was 
the  vase  of  flowers,  which  he  had  a  few  hours 
ago  removed,  restored  to  its  original  2)0sl- 
t'lon!  He  smiled.  The  hurried  entrance 
and  consternation  of  Miss  Faulkner  were 
now  fully  explained.  He  had  interrupted 
some  impassioned  message,  perhaps  even 
countermanded  some  affectionate  rendezvous 
beyond  the  lines.  And  it  seemed  to  settle 
the  fact  that  it  was  she  who  had  done  the 
signaling!  But  would  not  this  also  make 
her  cognizant  of  the  taking  of  the  dispatch- 
box?     He  reflected,  however,  that  the  room 

1  i.  e.,  patrols,  —  a  civic  home-guard  in  the  South  that 
kept  surveillauce  of  slaves. 


CLARENCE.  145 

was  apparently  occupied  by  the  mulatto 
woman  —  he  remembered  the  calico  dresses 
and  turban  on  the  bed  —  and  it  was  possible 
that  Miss  Faulkner  had  only  visited  it  for 
the  purpose  of  signaling  to  her  lover.  Al- 
though this  circumstance  did  not  tend  to 
make  his  mind  easier,  it  was,  however, 
presently  diverted  by  a  new  arrival  and  a 
strange  recognition. 

As  he  rode  through  the  camp  a  group  of 
officers  congregated  before  a  large  mess  tent 
appeared  to  be  highly  amused  by  the  con- 
versation —  half  monologue  and  half  ha- 
rangue—  of  a  singular-looking  individual 
who  stood  in  the  centre.  He  wore  a 
"slouch"  hat,  to  the  band  of  which  he  had 
imparted  a  military  air  by  the  addition  of  a 
gold  cord,  but  the  brim  was  caught  up  at 
the  side  in  a  peculiarly  theatrical  and  highly 
artificial  fashion.  A  heavy  cavalry  sabre 
depended  from  a  broad-buckled  belt  under 
his  black  frock  coat,  with  the  addition  of 
two  revolvers  —  minus  their  holsters  —  stuck 
on  either  side  of  the  buckle,  after  the  style 
of  a  stage  smuggler.  A  pair  of  long  enam- 
eled leather  riding  boots,  with  the  tops 
turned  deeply  over,  as  if  they  had  once  done 
duty  for  the  representative  of   a   cavalier, 


146  CLARENCE. 

completed  liis  extraordinary  equipment. 
The  group  were  so  absorbed  in  him  that 
they  did  not  perceive  the  approach  of  their 
chief  and  his  orderly;  and  Brant,  with  a 
sign  to  the  latter,  halted  only  a  few  paces 
from  this  central  figure.  His  speech  was  a 
singular  mingling  of  high-flown  and  exalted 
epithets,  with  inexact  pronunciation  and  oc- 
casional lapses  of  Western  slang. 

"Well,  I  ain't  purtendin'  to  any  stratu- 
tegical  smartness,  and  I  did  n't  gradooate 
at  West  Point  as  one  of  those  Apocryphal 
Engineers;  I  don't  do  much  talking  about 
'  flank  '  movements  or  '  recognizances  in 
force  '  or  '  Ekellon  skirmishing, '  but  when 
it  comes  down  to  square  Ingin  fightin',  I 
reckon  I  kin  have  my  say.  There  are  men 
who  don't  know  the  Army  Contractor,"  he 
added  darkly,  "who  mebbe  have  heard  of 
'  Red  Jim.'  I  don't  mention  names,  gentle- 
men, but  only  the  other  day  a  man  that  you 
all  know  says  to  me,  '  If  I  only  knew  what 
you  do  about  scoutin'  I  would  n't  be  want- 
ing for  information  as  I  do.'  I  ain't  goin' 
to  say  who  it  was,  or  break  any  confidences 
between  gentlemen  by  saying  how  many 
stars  he  had  on  his  shoulder  strap;  but 
he  was  a  man  who  knew  what  he  was  say- 


CLARENCE.  147 

ing.  And  I  say  agin,  gentlemen,  that  tlie 
curse  of  the  Northern  Army  is  the  want  of 
proper  scoutin'.  What  was  it  caused  Bull's 
Run?  — Want  o'  scoutin'.  What  was  it 
rolled  up  Pope  ?  —  Want  o'  scoutin'.  What 
caused  the  slaughter  at  the  Wilderness?  — 
Want  o'  scoutin'  —  Ingin  scoutin' !  Why, 
only  the  other  day,  gentlemen,  I  was  ap- 
proached to  know  what  I  'd  take  to  organize 
a  scoutin'  force.  And  what  did  I  say?  — 
'No,  General;  it  ain't  because  I  represent 
one  of  the  largest  Army  Beef  Contracts  in 
this  country, '  says  I.  'It  ain't  because  I  be- 
long, so  to  speak,  to  the  "Sinews  of  War; " 
but  because  I  'd  want  about  ten  thousand 
trained  Ingins  from  the  Reservations  !  ' 
And  the  regular  West  Point,  high-toned, 
scientific  inkybus  that  weighs  so  heavily  on 
our  army  don't  see  it  —  and  won't  have  it! 
Then  Sherman,  he  sez  to  me  "  — 

But  here  a  roar  of  laughter  interrupted 
him,  and  in  the  cross  fire  of  sarcastic  inter- 
rogations that  began  Brant  saw,  with  relief, 
a  chance  of  escape.  For  in  the  voice,  man- 
ner, and,  above  all,  the  characteristic  tem- 
perament of  the  stranger,  he  had  recognized 
his  old  playmate  and  the  husband  of  Susy, 
—  the  redoubtable  Jim  Hooker !    There  was 


148  CLARENCE. 

no  mistaking  that  gloomy  audacity;  that 
mysterious  significance;  that  magnificent 
lying.  But  even  at  that  moment  Clarence 
Brant's  heart  had  gone  out,  with  all  his  old 
loyalty  of  feeluig,  towards  his  old  compan- 
ion. He  knew  that  a  public  recognition  of 
him  then  and  there  would  plunge  Hooker 
into  confusion;  he  felt  keenly  the  ironical 
plaudits  and  laughter  of  his  officers  over  the 
manifest  wealiness  and  vanity  of  the  ex- 
teamster,  ex-rancher,  ex-actor,  and  husband 
of  his  old  girl  sweetheart,  and  would  have 
spared  him  the  knowledge  that  he  had  over- 
heard it.  Turning  hastily  to  the  orderly, 
he  bade  him  bring  the  stranger  to  his  head- 
quarters, and  rode  away  unperceived. 

He  had  heard  enough,  however,  to  ac- 
count for  his  presence  there,  and  the  sin- 
gular chance  that  had  brought  them  again 
together.  He  was  evidently  one  of  those 
large  civil  contractors  of  supplies  whom  the 
Government  was  obliged  to  employ,  who  vis- 
ited the  camp  half  officially,  and  whom  the 
army  alternately  depended  upon  and  abused. 
Brant  had  dealt  with  his  underlings  in  the 
Commissariat,  and  even  now  remembered 
that  he  had  heard  he  was  coming,  but  had 
overlooked   the   significance   of   his   name. 


CLARENCE.  149 

But  how  he  came  to  leave  his  theatrical  pro- 
fession, how  he  had  attained  a  position  which 
implied  a  command  of  considerable  capital 
—  for  many  of  the  contractors  had  already 
amassed  large  fortunes  —  and  what  had  be- 
come of  Susy  and  her  ambitions  in  this  rad- 
ical change  of  circumstances,  were  things 
still  to  be  learned.  In  his  own  changed  con- 
ditions he  had  seldom  thought  of  her ;  it  was 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  irritation  and  half 
responsibility  that  he  now  recalled  their  last 
interview  and  the  emotion  to  which  he  had 
yielded. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  had 
scarcely  regained  the  quarters  at  his  own 
private  office  before  he  heard  the  step  of  the 
orderly  upon  the  veranda  and  the  trailing 
clank  of  Hooker's  sabre.  He  did  not  know, 
however,  that  Hooker,  without  recognizing 
his  name,  had  received  the  message  as  a 
personal  tribute,  and  had  left  his  sarcastic 
companions  triumphantly,  with  the  air  of 
going  to  a  confidential  interview,  to  which 
his  well-known  military  criticism  had  en- 
titled him.  It  was  with  a  bearing  of  gloomy 
importance  and  his  characteristic,  sullen, 
sidelong  glance  that  he  entered  the  apart- 
ment and  did  not  look  up  until  Brant  had 


150  CLARENCE. 

signaled  the  orderly  to  withdraw,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  And  then  he  recog- 
nized his  old  boyish  companion  —  the  pre- 
ferred favorite  of  fortune ! 

For  a  moment  he  gasped  with  astonish- 
ment. For  a  moment  gloomy  incredulity, 
suspicion,  delight,  pride,  admiration,  even 
affection,  struggled  for  mastery  in  his  sul- 
len, staring  eyes  and  open,  twitching  mouth. 
For  here  was  Clarence  Brant,  handsomer 
than  ever,  more  superior  than  ever,  in  the 
majesty  of  uniform  and  authority  which 
fitted  him  —  the  younger  man  —  by  reason 
of  his  four  years  of  active  service,  with  the 
careless  ease  and  bearing  of  the  veteran ! 
Here  was  the  hero  whose  name  was  already 
so  famous  that  the  mere  coincidence  of  it 
with  that  of  the  modest  civilian  he  had 
known  would  have  struck  him  as  jDrepos- 
terous.  Yet  here  he  was  —  supreme  and 
dazzling  —  surrounded  by  the  pomp  and  cir~ 
cumstance  of  war  —  into  whose  reserved 
presence  he,  Jim  Hooker,  had  been  ushered 
with  the  formality  of  challenge,  saluting, 
and  presented  bayonets ! 

Luckily,  Brant  had  taken  advantage  of 
his  first  gratified  ejaculation  to  shake  him 
warmly  by  the  hand,  and  then,  with  both 


CLARENCE.  151 

hands  laid  familiarly  on  his  shoulder,  force 
him  down  into  a  chair.  Luckily,  for  by 
that  time  Jim  Hooker  had,  with  character- 
istic gloominess,  found  time  to  taste  the 
pangs  of  envy  —  an  envy  the  more  keen 
since,  in  spite  of  his  success  as  a  peaceful 
contractor,  he  had  always  secretly  longed  for 
military  display  and  distinction.  He  looked 
at  the  man  who  had  achieved  it,  as  he  firmly 
believed,  by  sheer  luck  and  accident,  and 
his  eyes  darkened.  Then,  with  characteris- 
tic weakness  and  vanity,  he  began  to  resist 
his  first  impressions  of  Clarence's  superior- 
ity, and  to  air  his  own  importance.  He 
leaned  heavily  back  in  the  chair  in  which  he 
had  been  thus  genially  forced,  drew  off  his 
gauntlet  and  attempted  to  thrust  it  through 
his  belt,  as  he  had  seen  Brant  do,  but  failed 
on  account  of  his  pistols  already  occupying 
that  position,  dropped  it,  got  his  swoi'd  be- 
tween his  legs  in  attempting  to  pick  it  up, 
and  then  leaned  back  again,  with  haK-closed 
eyes  serenely  indifferent  of  his  old  compan- 
ion's smiling  face. 

"  I  reckon,"  he  began  slowly,  with  a 
slightly  patronizing  air,  "that  we  'd  have 
met,  sooner  or  later,  at  Washington,  or  at 
Grant's  headquarters,  for  Hooker,  Meacham 


152  CLARENCE. 

&  Co.  go  everywhere,  and  are  about  as  well 
known  as  major-generals,  to  say  nothin'," 
he  went  on,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  Brant's 
shoulder-straps,  "of  brigadiers;  and  it  's 
rather  strange  —  only,  of  course,  you  're 
kind  of  fresh  in  the  service  —  that  you  ain't 
heard  of  me  afore." 

"But  I  'm  very  glad  to  hear  of  you  now, 
Jim,"  said  Brant,  smiling,  "and  from  your 
own  lips  —  which  I  am  also  delighted  to 
find,"  he  added  mischievously,  "are  still  as 
frankly  communicative  on  that  topic  as  of 
old.  But  I  congratulate  you,  old  fellow,  on 
your  good  fortune.  When  did  you  leave 
the  stage?  " 

Mr.  Hooker  frowned  slightly. 

"I  never  was  really  on  the  stage,  you 
know,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  with  as- 
sumed negligence.  "  Only  went  on  to  please 
my  wife.  Mrs.  Hooker  wouldn't  act  with 
vulgar  professionals,  don't  you  see !  I  was 
really  manager  most  of  the  time,  and  les- 
see of  the  theatre.  Went  East  when  the  war 
broke  out,  to  offer  my  sword  and  knowledge 
of  Ingin  fightin'  to  Uncle  Sam !  Drifted  into 
a  big  pork  contract  at  St.  Louis,  with  Fre- 
mont. Been  at  it  ever  since.  Offered  a  com- 
mission in  the  reg'lar  service  lots  o'  times. 
Refused." 


CLARENCE.  153 

"Why?"  asked  Brant  demurely. 

"Too  niucli  West  Point  starch  around  to 
suit  me,"  returned  Hooker  darkly.  "And 
too  many  spies!  " 

"  Spies  ?"  echoed  Brant  abstractedly, 
with  a  momentary  reminiscence  of  Miss 
Faulkner. 

"Yes,  spies,"  continued  Hooker,  with 
dogged  mystery.  "One  half  of  Washing- 
ton is  watching  t'  other  half,  and,  from  the 
President's  wife  down,  most  of  the  women 
are  secesh! " 

Brant  suddenly  fixed  his  keen  eyes  on  his 
guest.  But  the  next  moment  he  reflected 
that  this  was  only  Jim  Hooker's  usual 
speech,  and  possessed  no  ulterior  signifi- 
cance. He  smiled  again,  and  said,  more 
gently,  — 

"And  how  is  Mrs.  Hooker?  " 

Mr.  Hooker  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling, 
rose,  and  pretended  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow; then,  taking  his  seat  again  by  the 
table,  as  if  fronting  an  imaginary  audience, 
and  pulling  slowly  at  his  gauntlets  after  the 
usual  theatrical  indication  of  perfect  sang- 
froid, said,  — 

"There  ain't  any! " 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Brant,  with  gen- 


154  CLARENCE. 

uine  emotion.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  Really, 
I"  — 

"Mrs.  Hooker  and  me  are  divorced,"  con- 
tinued Hooker,  slightly  changing  his  atti- 
tude, and  leaning  heavily  on  his  sabre, 
with  his  eyes  still  on  his  fanciful  audience. 
"There  was,  you  understand"  —  lightly  toss- 
ing his  gauntlet  aside  —  "  incompatibility  of 
temper  —  and  — we  —  parted !     Ha ! ' ' 

He  uttered  a  low,  bitter,  scornful  laugh, 
which,  however,  produced  the  distinct  im- 
pression in  Brant's  mind  that  up  to  that 
moment  he  had  never  had  the  slightest  feel- 
ing in  the  matter  whatever. 

"You  seemed  to  be  on  such  good  terms 
with  each  other !  "  murmured  Brant  vaguely. 

"Seemed!"  said  Hooker  bitterly,  glan- 
cing sardonically  at  an  ideal  second  row  in 
the  pit  before  him,  "yes —  seemed!  There 
were  other  differences,  social  and  political. 
You  understand  that  ;  you  have  suffered, 
too."  He  reached  out  his  hand  and  pressed 
Brant's,  in  heavy  effusiveness.  "But,"  he 
continued  haughtily,  lightly  tossing  his  glove 
again,  "we  are  also  men  of  the  world;  we 
let  that  pass." 

And  it  was  possible  that  he  found  the 
strain  of  his  present  attitude  too  great,  for 
he  changed  to  an  easier  position. 


CLARENCE.  155 

"But,"  said  Brant  curiously,  "I  always 
tliouglit  that  Mrs.  Hooker  was  intensely 
Union  and  Northern?" 

"Put  on!"  said  Hooker,  in  his  natural 
voice. 

"But  you  remember  the  incident  of  the 
flag?"  persisted  Brant. 

"Mrs.  Hooker  was  always  an  actress," 
said  Hooker  significantly.  "But,"  he  added 
cheerfully,  "Mrs.  Hooker  is  now  the  wife 
of  Senator  Boompointer,  one  of  the  wealth- 
iest and  most  powerful  Republicans  in 
Washington  —  carries  the  patronage  of  the 
whole  West  in  his  vest  pocket." 

"Yet,  if  she  is  not  a  Republican,  why 
did  she  "  —  began  Brant. 

"  For  a  jDurpose,"  replied  Hooker  darkly. 
"But,"  he  added  again,  with  greater  cheer- 
fulness, "  she  belongs  to  the  very  elite  of 
Washington  society.  Goes  to  all  the  foreign 
ambassadors'  balls,  and  is  a  power  at  the 
White  House.  Her  picture  is  in  all  the 
first-class  illustrated  papers." 

The  singular  but  unmistakable  pride  of 
the  man  in  the  importance  of  the  wife  from 
whom  he  was  divorced,  and  for  whom  he 
did  not  care,  would  have  offended  Brant's 
delicacy,  or  at  least  have  excited  his  ridicule, 


156  CLARENCE. 

but  for  the  reason  tliat  he  was  more  deejjly 
stmig  by  Hooker's  alkision  to  his  own  wife 
and  his  degrading  similitude  of  their  two 
conditions.  But  he  dismissed  the  former  as 
part  of  Hooker's  invincible  and  still  boyish 
extravagance,  and  the  latter  as  part  of  his 
equally  characteristic  assumption.  Perhaps 
he  was  conscious,  too,  notwithstanding  the 
lapse  of  years  and  the  condonation  of  sepa- 
ration and  forgetfulness,  that  he  deserved 
little  delicacy  from  the  hands  of  Susy's  hus- 
band. Nevertheless,  he  dreaded  to  hear  him 
speak  again  of  her ;  and  the  fear  was  real- 
ized in  a  question. 

"Does  she  know  you  are  here?" 

"Who?"  said  Brant  curtly. 

"Your  wife.  That  is  —  I  reckon  she  's 
your  wife  still,  eh?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  I  do  not  know  what  she  knows, " 
returned  Brant  quietly.  He  had  regained  his 
self -composure. 

"Susy, —  Mrs.  Senator  Boompointer,  that 
is,"  — said  Hooker,  with  an  apparent  dig- 
nity in  his  late  wife's  new  title,  "allowed 
that  she  'd  gone  abroad  on  a  secret  mission 
from  the  Southern  Confederacy  to  them 
crowned  heads  over  there.  She  was  good 
at  ropiu'  men  in,  you  know.    Anyhow,  Susy, 


CLARENCE.  157 

afore  slie  was  Mrs.  Boompointer,  was  dead 
set  on  findin'  out  where  she  was,  but  never 
could.  She  seemed  to  drop  out  of  sight  a 
year  ago.  Some  said  one  thing,  and  some 
said  another.  But  you  can  bet  your  bottom 
dollar  that  Mrs.  Senator  Boompointer,  who 
knows  how  to  pull  all  the  wires  in  Washing- 
ton, will  know,  if  any  one  does." 

"But  is  Mrs.  Boompointer  really  disaf- 
fected, and  a  Southern  sympathizer?"  said 
Brant,  "or  is  it  only  caprice  or  fashion?" 

While  speaking  he  had  risen,  with  a  half- 
abstracted  face,  and  had  gone  to  the  win- 
dow, where  he  stood  in  a  listening  attitude. 
Presently  he  opened  the  window,  and 
stepped  outside.  Hooker  wonderingiy  fol- 
lowed him.  One  or  two  officers  had  already 
stej)ped  out  of  their  rooms,  and  were  stand- 
ing upon  the  veranda;  another  had  halted 
in  the  path.  Then  one  quickly  reentered 
the  house,  reappeared  with  his  cap  and 
sword  in  his  hand,  and  ran  lightly  toward 
the  guard-house.  A  slight  crackling  noise 
seemed  to  come  from  beyond  the  garden 
wall. 

"What  's  up?"  said  Hooker,  with  star- 
ing eyes. 

"Picket  firing!" 


158  CLARENCE. 

The  crackling  suddenly  became  a  long 
rattle.  Brant  reentered  the  room,  and 
picked  up  his  hat. 

"You  '11  excuse  me  for  a  few  moments." 

A  faint  sound,  soft  yet  full,  and  not  un- 
like a  bursting  bubble,  made  the  house  ap- 
pear to  leap  elastically,  like  the  rebound  of 
a  rubber  ball. 

"What  's  that?"  gasped  Hooker. 

"Cannon,  out  of  range!  " 


CHAPTEE   V. 

In  another  instaut  bugles  were  ringing 
througli  the  camp,  with  the  hurrying  hoofs 
of  mounted  officers  and  the  trampling  of 
formins'  men.  The  house  itself  was  almost 
deserted.  Although  the  single  cannon-shot 
had  been  enough  to  show  that  it  was  no 
mere  skirmishing  of  pickets,  Brant  still  did 
not  believe  in  any  serious  attack  of  the 
enemy.  His  position,  as  in  the  previous 
engagement,  had  no  strategic  importance  to 
them;  they  were  no  doubt  only  making  a 
feint  against  it  to  conceal  some  advance  upon 
the  centre  of  the  army  two  miles  away. 
Satisfied  that  he  was  in  easy  supporting  dis- 
tance of  his  division  commander,  he  ex- 
tended his  line  along  the  ridge,  ready  to  fall 
back  in  that  direction,  while  retarding  their 
advance  and  masking  the  position  of  his 
own  chief.  He  gave  a  few  orders  necessary 
to  the  probable  abandonment  of  the  house, 
and  then  returned  to  it.  Shot  and  shell 
were  already  dropping  in  the  field  below.  A 


160  CLARENCE. 

tliin  ridge  of  blue  haze  showed  the  line  of 
skirmish  fire.  A  small  conical,  white  cloud, 
like  a  bursting  cotton-pod,  revealed  an  open 
battery  in  the  willow-fringed  meadow.  Yet 
the  pastoral  peacefulness  of  the  house  was 
unchanged.  The  afternoon  sun  lay  softly 
on  its  deep  verandas ;  the  pot  pourri  incense 
of  fallen  rose-leaves  haunted  it  stiU. 

He  entered  his  room  through  the  French 
window  on  the  veranda,  when  the  door  lead- 
ing from  the  passage  was  suddenly  flung 
open,  and  Miss  Faulkner  swept  quickly  in- 
side, closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  leaned 
back  against  it,  panting  and  breathless. 

Clarence  was  startled,  and  for  a  moment 
ashamed.  He  had  suddenly  realized  that  in 
the  excitement  he  had  entirely  forgotten  her 
and  the  dangers  to  which  she  might  be  ex- 
posed. She  had  probably  heard  the  firing, 
her  womanly  fears  had  been  awakened ;  sfce 
had  come  to  him  for  protection.  But  as  he 
turned  towards  her  with  a  reassuring  smile, 
he  was  shocked  to  see  that  her  agitation  and 
pallor  were  far  beyond  any  physical  cause. 
She  motioned  him  desperately  to  shut  the 
window  by  which  he  had  entered,  and  said, 
with  white  lips,  — 

"I  must  speak  with  you  alone!  " 


CLARENCE.  161 

"Certainly.  But  there  is  no  immediate 
danger  to  you  even  here  —  and  I  can  soon 
put  you  beyond  the  reach  of  any  possible 
harm." 

"Harm  —  to  me  I  God!  i£  it  were  only 
that!" 

He  stared  at  her  uneasily. 

"  Listen,"  she  said  gaspingly,  "listen  to 
me !  Then  hate,  despise  me  —  kill  me  if  you 
will.  For  you  are  betrayed  and  ruined  — 
cut  off  and  surrounded !  It  has  been  helped 
on  by  me,  but  I  swear  to  you  the  blow  did 
not  come  from  ony  hand.  I  would  have 
saved  you.  God  only  knows  how  it  hap- 
pened —  it  was  Fate !  " 

In  an  instant  Brant  saw  the  whole  truth 
instinctively  and  clearly.  But  with  the 
revelation  came  the  usual  calmness  and  per- 
fect self-possession  which  never  yet  had 
failed  him  in  any  emergency.  With  the 
sound  of  the  increasing  cannonade  and  its 
shifting  position  made  clearer  to  his  ears, 
the  view  of  his  whole  threatened  position 
spread  out  like  a  map  before  his  eyes,  the 
swift  calculation  of  the  time  his  men  could 
hold  the  ridge  in  his  mind  —  even  a  hurried 
estimate  of  the  precious  moments  he  could 
give  to  the  wretched  woman  before  him  —  he 


162  CLARENCE. 

even  then,  gravely  and  gently,  led  her  to  a 
chair  and  said  in  a  calm  voice,  — 

"  That  is  not  enough  I  Speak  slowly, 
plainly.  I  must  know  everything.  How 
and  in  what  way  have  you  betrayed  me?  " 

She  looked  at  him  imploringly  —  reas- 
sured, yet  awed  by  his  gentleness. 

"You  won't  believe  me;  you  cannot  be- 
lieve me!  for  I  do  not  even  know.  I  have 
taken  and  exchanged  letters  —  whose  con- 
tents I  never  saw  —  between  the  Confeder- 
ates and  a  spy  who  comes  to  this  house,  but 
who  is  far  away  by  this  time.  I  did  it  be- 
cause I  thought  you  hated  and  despised  me 
—  because  I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  help 
my  cause  —  because  you  said  it  was  '  war  ' 
between  us  —  but  I  never  sj)ied  on  you.  I 
swear  it." 

"Then  how  do  you  know  of  this  attack?" 
he  said  calmly. 

She  brightened,  half  timidly,  half  hope- 
fully. 

"There  Is  a  window  in  the  wing  of  this 
house  that  overlooks  the  slope  near  the  Con- 
federate lines.  There  was  a  signal  placed 
in  it  —  not  by  me  —  but  I  know  it  meant 
that  as  long  as  it  was  there  the  plot,  what- 
ever it  was,  was  not  ripe,  and  that  no  attack 


CLARENCE.  '163' 

would  be  made  on  you  as  long  as  it  was 
visible.  That  much  I  know,  —  that  much 
the  spy  had  to  tell  me,  for  we  both  had  to 
guard  that  room  in  turns.  I  wanted  to 
keep  this  dreadful  thing  off  —  until" —  her 
voice  trembled,  "until,"  she  added  hur- 
riedly, seeing  his  calm  eyes  were  reading  her 
very  soul,  "until  I  went  away  —  and  for 
that  purpose  I  withheld  some  of  the  letters 
that  were  given  me.  But  this  morning, 
while  I  was  away  from  the  house,  I  looked 
back  and  saw  that  the  signal  was  no  longer 
there.  Some  one  had  changed  it.  I  ran 
back,  but  I  was  too  late  —  God  helj)  me ! 
—  as  you  see." 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Brant.  It  was 
his  own  hand  that  had  precipitated  the  at- 
tack. But  a  larger  truth  came  to  him  now, 
like  a  dazzling  inspiration.  If  he  had  thus 
precipitated  the  attack  before  they  were 
ready,  there  was  a  chance  that  it  was  imper- 
fect, and  there  was  still  hope.  But  there 
was  no  trace  of  this  visible  in  his  face  as  he 
fixed  his  eyes  calmly  on  hers,  although  his 
pulses  were  halting  in  expectancy  as  he 
said  — 

"Then  the  spy  had  suspected  you,  and 
changed  it." 


164  CLARENCE. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  eagerly,  "for  the 
spy  was  with  me  and  was  friglitened  too. 
We  both  ran  back  together  —  you  remember 
—  she  was  stopped  by  the  patrol!  " 

She  checked  herself  suddenly,  but  too 
late.  Her  cheeks  blazed,  her  head  sank, 
with  the  foolish  identification  of  the  spy  into 
which  her  eagerness  had  betrayed  her. 

But  Brant  appeared  not  to  notice  it.  He 
was,  in  fact,  puzzling  his  brain  to  conceive 
what  information  the  stupid  mulatto  woman 
could  have  obtained  here.  His  strength,  his 
position  was  no  secret  to  the  enemy  —  there 
was  nothing  to  gain  from  him.  She  mvist 
have  been,  like  the  trembling,  eager  woman 
before  him,  a  mere  tool  of  others. 

"Did  this  woman  live  here?  "  he  said. 

"No,"  she  said.  "She  lived  with  the 
Manly s,  but  had  friends  whom  she  visited 
at  your  general's  headquarters." 

With  difficulty  Brant  suppressed  a  start. 
It  was  clear  to  him  now.  The  information 
had  been  obtained  at  the  division  head- 
quarters, and  passed  through  his  camp  as 
being  nearest  the  Confederate  lines.  But 
what  was  the  information  —  and  what  move- 
ment had  he  precipitated  ?  It  was  clear  that 
this  woman  did  not  know.      He  looked  at 


CLARENCE.  165 

her  keenly.  A  sudden  explosion  shook  the 
house,  —  a  drift  of  smoke  passed  the  win- 
dow, —  a  shell  had  burst  in  the  garden. 

She  had  been  gazing  at  him  despairingly, 
wistfully  —  but  did  not  blanch  or  start. 

An  idea  took  possession  of  him.  He  ap- 
proached her,  and  took  her  cold  hand.  A 
half -smile  parted  her  pale  lips. 

"You  have  courage  —  you  have  devo- 
tion," he  said  gravely.  "I  believe  you  re- 
gret the  step  you  have  taken.  If  you  could 
undo  what  you  have  done,  even  at  peril  to 
yourseK,  dare  you  do  it? " 

"Yes,"  she  said  breathlessly. 

"You  are  known  to  the  enemy.  If  I  am 
surrounded,  you  could  pass  through  their 
lines  unquestioned?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  eagerly. 

"A  note  from  me  would  pass  you  again 
through  the  pickets  of  our  headquarters. 
But  you  would  bear  a  note  to  the  general 
that  no  eyes  but  his  must  see.  It  would  not 
implicate  you  or  yours;  would  only  be  a 
word  of  warning." 

"And  you,"  she  said  quickly,  "would  be 
saved!  They  would  come  to  your  assist- 
ance!    You  would  not  then  be  taken?" 

He  smiled  gently. 


166  CLARENCE. 

"Perhaps  —  who  knows !  " 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  hurriedly. 

"This,"  he  said,  handing  her  a  slip  of 
paper,  "is  a  pass.  You  will  use  it  beyond 
your  own  lines.  This  note,"  he  continued, 
handing  her  a  sealed  envelope,  "is  for  the 
general.  No  one  else  must  see  it  or  know 
of  it  —  not  even  your  lover,  should  you  meet 
him!" 

"My  lover!  "  she  said  indignantly,  with  a 
flash  of  her  old  savagery;  "what  do  you 
mean  ?     I  have  no  lover !  " 

Brant  glanced  at  her  flushed  face. 

"I  thought,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  there 
was  some  one  you  cared  for  in  yonder  lines 
—  some  one  you  wrote  to.  It  would  have 
been  an  excuse  "  — 

He  stopped,  as  her  face  paled  again,  and 
her  hands  dropped  heavily  at  her  side. 

"Good  God! — you  thought  that,  too! 
You  thought  that  I  would  sacrifice  you  for 
another  man! " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Brant  quickly.  "I 
was  foolish.  But  whether  your  lover  is  a 
man  or  a  cause,  you  have  shown  a  woman's 
devotion.  And,  in  repairing  your  fault,  you 
are  showing  more  than  a  woman's  courage 
now." 


CLARENCE.  167 

To  his  surprise,  the  color  had  again 
mounted  her  pretty  cheeks,  and  even  a  flash 
of  mischief  shone  in  her  bhie  eyes. 

"It  would  have  been  an  excuse,"  she  mur- 
mured, "yes  —  to  save  a  man,  surely!" 
Then  she  said  quickly,  "I  will  go.  At 
once!     I  am  ready!" 

"One  moment,"  he  said  gravely.  "Al- 
though this  pass  and  an  escort  insure  your 
probable  safe  conduct,  this  is  '  war  '  and 
danger!  You  are  still  a  spy!  Are  you 
ready  to  go?  " 

"I  am,"  she  said  proudly,  tossing  back  a 
braid  of  her  fallen  hair.  Yet  a  moment 
after  she  hesitated.  Then  she  said,  in  a 
lower  voice,  "Are  you  ready  to  forgive? " 

"In  either  case,"  he  said,  touched  by  her 
manner;   "and  God  speed  you!  " 

He  extended  his  hand,  and  left  a  slight 
pressure  on  her  cold  fingers.  But  they 
slipped  quickly  from  his  grasp,  and  she 
turned  away  with  a  heightened  color. 

He  stepped  to  the  door.  One  or  two  aides- 
de-camp,  withheld  by  his  order  against  in- 
trusion, were  waiting  eagerly  with  reports. 
The  horse  of  a  mounted  field  officer  was 
pawing  the  garden  turf.  The  officers  stared 
at  the  young  girl. 


168  CLARENCE. 

"Take  Miss  Faulkner,  with  a  flag,  to 
some  safe  point  of  the  enemy's  line.  She 
is  a  non-combatant  of  their  own,  and  will 
receive  their  protection." 

He  had  scarcely  exchanged  a  dozen  words 
with  the  aids-de-camp  before  the  field  offi- 
cer hurriedly  entered.  Taking  Brant  aside, 
he  said  quickly,  — 

"Pardon  me.  General;  but  there  is  a 
strong  feeling  among  the  men  that  this  at- 
tack is  the  result  of  some  information  ob- 
tained by  the  enemy.  You  must  know  that 
the  woman  you  have  just  given  a  safeguard 
to  is  suspected,  and  the  men  are  indignant." 

"The  more  reason  why  she  should  be 
conveyed  beyond  any  consequences  of  their 
folly.  Major,"  said  Brant  frigidly,  "and  I 
look  to  you  for  her  safe  convoy.  There  is 
nothing  in  this  attack  to  show  that  the 
enemy  has  received  any  information  regard- 
ing us.  But  I  woiild  suggest  that  it  would 
be  better  to  see  that  my  orders  are  carried 
out  regarding  the  slaves  and  non-combatants 
who  are  passing  our  lines  from  divisional 
headquarters,  where  valuable  information 
may  be  obtained,  than  in  the  surveillance  of 
a  testy  and  outspoken  girl." 

An  angry  flush  crossed  the  major's  cheek 


CLARENCE.  169 

as  he  saluted  and  fell  back,  and  Brant 
turned  to  the  aide-de-camp.  The  news  was 
grave.  The  column  of  the  enemy  was  mov- 
ing against  the  ridge  —  it  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible to  hold  it  —  and  the  brigade  was  cut 
off  from  its  communication  with  the  divis- 
ional headquarters,  although  as  yet  no 
combined  movement  was  made  against  it. 
Brant's  secret  fears  that  it  was  an  intended 
impact  against  the  centre  were  confirmed. 
Would  his  communication  to  the  divisional 
commander  pass  through  the  attacking  col- 
umn in  time? 

Yet  one  thing  puzzled  him.  The  enemy, 
after  forcing  his  flank,  had  shown  no  dispo- 
sition, even  with  their  overwhelming  force, 
to  turn  aside  and  crush  him.  He  could 
easily  have  fallen  back,  when  it  was  possible 
to  hold  the  ridge  no  longer,  without  pursuit. 
His  other  flank  and  rear  were  not  threat- 
ened, as  they  might  have  been,  by  the  divi- 
sion of  so  large  an  attacking  cobuuu,  which 
was  moving  steadily  on  towards  the  ridge. 
It  was  this  fact  that  seemed  to  show  a  fail- 
ure or  imperfection  in  the  enemy's  plan.  It 
was  possible  that  his  precipitation  of  the 
attack  by  the  changed  signal  had  been  the 
cause  of  it.     Doubtless  some  provision  had 


170  CLARENCE. 

been  made  to  attack  him  in  flank  and  rear, 
but  in  tlie  unexpected  hurry  of  the  onset  it 
had  to  be  abandoned.  He  could  still  save 
himself,  as  his  officers  knew;  but  his  con- 
viction that  he  might  yet  be  able  to  support 
his  divisional  commander  by  holding  his 
position  doggedly,  but  coolly  awaiting  his 
opportunity,  was  strong.  More  than  that, 
it  was  his  temperament  and  instinct. 

Harrying  them  in  flank  and  rear,  contest- 
ing the  ground  inch  by  inch,  and  holding  his 
own  against  the  artillery  sent  to  dislodge 
him,  or  the  outriding  cavalry  that,  circling 
round,  swept  through  his  open  ranks,  he 
saw  his  files  melt  away  beside  this  steady 
current  without  flinching. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Yet  all  along  the  fateful  ridge  —  now 
obscured  and  confused  with  thin  crossing 
smoke  -  drifts  from  file  -  firing,  like  partly 
rubbed  -  out  slate  -  pencil  marks ;  or  else, 
when  cleared  of  those  drifts,  presenting  only 
an  indistinguishable  map  of  zigzag  lines  of 
straggling  wagons  and  horses,  unintelligi- 
ble to  any  eye  but  his  —  the  singular  mag- 
netism of  the  chief  was  felt  everywhere: 
whether  it  was  shown  in  the  quick  closing 
in  of  resistance  to  some  sharper  onset  of  the 
enemy  or  the  more  dogged  stand  of  inaction 
under  fire,  his  power  was  always  dominant. 
A  word  or  two  of  comprehensive  direction 
sent  through  an  aide-de-camp,  or  the  sudden 
relief  of  his  dark,  watchful,  composed  face 
uplifted  above  a  line  of  bayonets,  never 
failed  in  their  magic.  Like  all  born  lead- 
ers, he  seemed  in  these  emergencies  to  hold 
a  charmed  life  —  infecting  his  followers  with 
a  like  disbelief  in  death;  men  dropped  to 
riffht  and  left  of  him  with  serene  assurance 


172  CLARENCE. 

in  their  ghastly  faces  or  a  cry  of  life  and  con- 
fidence in  tlieir  last  gasp.  Stragglers  fell 
in  and  closed  up  under  his  passing  glance ; 
a  hopeless,  inextricable  wrangle  around  an 
overturned  caisson,  at  a  turn  of  the  road, 
resolved  itself  into  an  orderly,  quiet,  deliber- 
ate clearing  away  of  the  impediment  before 
the  significant  waiting  of  that  dark,  silent 
horseman. 

Yet  under  this  imperturbable  mask  he  was 
keenly  conscious  of  everything;  in  that  ap- 
parent concentration  there  was  a  sharpening 
of  all  his  senses  and  his  impressibility:  he 
saw  the  first  trace  of  doubt  or  alarm  in  the 
face  of  a  subaltern  to  whom  he  was  giving 
an  order;  the  first  touch  of  sluggishness 
in  a  re-forming  line;  the  more  significant 
clumsiness  of  a  living  evolution  that  he  knew 
was  clogged  by  the  dead  bodies  of  comrades ; 
the  ominous  silence  of  a  breastwork;  the 
awful  inertia  of  some  rigidly  kneeling  files 
beyond,  which  still  kept  their  form  but 
never  would  move  again ;  the  melting  away 
of  skirmish  points;  the  sudden  gaps  here 
and  there ;  the  sickening  incurving  of  what 
a  moment  before  had  been  a  straight  line  — 
all  these  he  saw  in  all  their  fatal  signifi- 
cance.    But  even  at  this  moment,  coming 


CLARENCE.  173 

upon  a  hasty  barricade  of  overset  commis- 
sary wagons,  he  stopped  to  glance  at  a 
familiar  figure  he  had  seen  but  an  hour  ago, 
who  now  seemed  to  be  commanding  a  group 
of  collected  stragglers  and  camp  followers. 
Mounted  on  a  wheel,  with  a  revolver  in  each 
hand  and  a  bowie  knife  between  his  teeth  — 
theatrical  even  in  his  paroxysm  of  undoubted 
courage  —  glared  Jim  Hooker.  And  Clar- 
ence Brant,  with  the  whole  responsibility  of 
the  field  on  his  shoulders,  even  at  that  des- 
perate moment,  found  himself  recalling  a 
vivid  picture  of  the  actor  Hooker  personat- 
ing the  character  of  "Red  Dick"  in  "Rosa- 
lie, the  Prairie  Flower,"  as  he  had  seen  him 
in  a  California  theatre  five  years  before. 

It  wanted  still  an  hour  of  the  darkness 
that  would  probably  close  the  fight  of  that 
day.  Could  he  hold  out,  keeping  his  offen- 
sive position  so  long?  A  hasty  council 
with  his  officers  showed  him  that  the  weak- 
ness of  their  position  had  already  infected 
them.  They  reminded  him  that  his  line  of 
retreat  was  still  open  —  that  in  the  coiu-se 
of  the  night  the  enemy,  although  still  press- 
ing towards  the  division  centre,  might 
yet  turn  and  outflank  him  —  or  that  their 
strangely  delayed  supports  might  come  up 


174  CLARENCE. 

before  morning.  Brant's  glass,  however, 
remained  fixed  on  tlie  main  column,  still 
pursuing  its  way  along  the  ridge.  It  struck 
him  suddenly,  however,  that  the  steady  cur- 
rent had  stopped,  spread  out  along  the  crest 
on  both  sides,  and  was  now  at  right  angles 
with  its  previous  course.  There  had  been  a 
check!  The  next  moment  the  thunder  of 
guns  along  the  whole  horizon,  and  the  rising 
cloud  of  smoke,  revealed  a  line  of  battle. 
The  division  centre  was  engaged.  The 
oj)portunity  he  had  longed  for  had  come  — 
the  desperate  chance  to  throw  himself  on 
their  rear  and  cut  his  way  through  to  the 
division  —  but  it  had  come  too  late !  He 
looked  at  his  shattered  ranks  —  scarce  a 
regiment  remained.  Even  as  a  demonstra- 
tion, the  attack  would  fail  against  the  ene- 
my's superior  numbers.  Nothing  clearly 
was  left  to  him  now  but  to  remain  where  he 
was  —  within  supporting  distance,  and  await 
the  issue  of  the  fight  beyond.  He  was  put- 
ting up  his  glass,  when  the  dull  boom  of  can- 
non in  the  extreme  western  limit  of  the  hori- 
zon attracted  his  attention.  By  the  still 
gleaming  sky  he  could  see  a  long  gray  line 
stealing  vip  from  the  valley  from  the  distant 
rear  of  the    headquarters  to  join  the  main 


CLARENCE.  175 

column.  They  were  the  missing  sujjports ! 
His  heart  leaped.  He  held  the  key  of  the 
mystery  now.  The  one  imperfect  detail  of 
the  enemy's  plan  was  before  him.  The 
supports,  coming-  later  from  the  west,  had 
only  seen  the  second  signal  from  the  win- 
dow—  when  Miss  Faulkner  had  replaced 
the  vase  —  and  had  avoided  his  position.  It 
was  impossible  to  limit  the  effect  of  this 
blunder.  If  the  young  girl  who  had  thus 
saved  him  had  reached  the  division  com- 
mander with  his  message  in  time,  he  might 
be  forewarned,  and  even  profit  by  it.  His 
own  position  would  be  less  precarious,  as  the 
enemy,  already  engaged  in  front,  would  be 
unable  to  recover  their  position  in  the  rear 
and  correct  the  blunder.  The  bidk  of  their 
column  had  already  streamed  past  him.  If 
defeated,  there  was  always  the  danger  that 
it  might  be  rolled  back  upon  him  —  but  he 
conjectured  that  the  division  commander 
would  attempt  to  prevent  the  junction  of  the 
supports  with  the  main  column  by  breaking 
between  them,  crowding  them  from  the 
ridge,  and  joining  him.  As  the  last  strag- 
glers of  the  rear  guard  swept  by,  Brant's 
bugles  were  already  recalling  the  skirmish- 
ers. He  redoubled  his  pickets,  and  resolved 
to  wait  and  watch. 


176  CLARENCE. 

And  there  was  the  more  painful  duty  of 
looking  after  the  wounded  and  the  dead. 
The  larger  rooms  of  the  headquarters  had 
already  been  used  as  a  hospital.  Passing 
from  cot  to  cot,  recognizing  in  the  faces 
now  drawn  with  agony,  or  staring  in  vacant 
unconsciousness,  the  features  that  he  had 
seen  only  a  few  hours  before  flushed  with 
enthusiasm  and  excitement,  something  of  his 
old  doubting,  questioning  nature  returned. 
Was  there  no  way  but  this  ?  How  far  was 
he  —  moving  among  them  unscathed  and 
uninjui-ed  —  responsible  ? 

And  if  not  he  —  who  then?  His  mind 
went  back  bitterly  to  the  old  days  of  the 
conspiracy  —  to  the  inception  of  that  strug- 
gle which  was  bearing  such  ghastly  fruit.  He 
thought  of  his  traitorous  wife,  until  he  felt  his 
cheeks  tingle,  and  he  was  fain  to  avert  his 
eyes  from  those  of  his  prostrate  comrades, 
in  a  strange  fear  that,  with  the  clairvoyance 
of  dying  men,  they  should  read  his  secret. 

It  was  past  midnight  when,  without  un- 
dressing, he  threw  himself  upon  his  bed  in 
the  little  convent-like  cell  to  snatch  a  few 
moments  of  sleep.  Its  spotless,  peaceful 
walls  and  draperies  affected  him  strangely, 
as    if   he  had  brought  into  its  immaculate 


CLARENCE.  177 

serenity  the  sanguine  stain  of  war.  He 
was  awakened  suddenly  from  a  deep  slum- 
ber by  an  indefinite  sense  of  alarm.  His 
first  thought  was  that  he  had  been  summoned 
to  repel  an  attack.  He  sat  up  and  listened ; 
everything  was  silent  except  the  measured 
tread  of  the  sentry  on  the  gravel  walk  be- 
low. But  the  door  was  open.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  slipped  into  the  gallery  in 
time  to  see  the  tall  figure  of  a  woman  glide 
before  the  last  moonlit  window  at  its  far- 
thest end.  He  could  not  see  her  face  —  but 
the  characteristic  turbaned  head  of  the  negro 
race  was  plainly  visible. 

He  did  not  care  to  follow  her  or  even  to 
alarm  the  guard.  If  it  were  the  spy  or  one 
of  her  emissaries,  she  was  powerless  now  to 
do  any  harm,  and  under  his  late  orders  and 
the  rigorous  vigilance  of  his  sentinels  she 
could  not  leave  the  lines  —  or,  indeed,  the 
house.  She  probably  knew  this  as  well  as 
he  did;  it  was,  therefore,  no  doubt  only  an 
accidental  intrusion  of  one  of  the  servants. 
He  reentered  the  room,  and  stood  for  a  few 
moments  by  the  window,  looking  over  the 
moonlit  ridge.  The  sounds  of  distant  can- 
non had  long  since  ceased.  Wide  awake, 
and   refreshed   by   the   keen  morning    air, 


178  CLARENCE. 

which  alone  of  all  created  things  seemed  to 
have  shaken  the  burden  of  the  dreadful  yes- 
terday from  its  dewy  wings,  he  turned  away 
and  lit  a  candle  on  the  table.  As  he  was 
rebuckling  his  sword  belt  he  saw  a  piece  of 
paper  lying  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  from 
which  he  had  just  risen.  Taking  it  to  the 
candle,  he  read  in  a  roughly  scrawled  hand : 

"You  are  asleep  when  you  should  be  on 
the  march.  You  have  no  time  to  lose.  Be- 
fore daybreak  the  supports  of  the  column 
you  have  been  foolishly  resisting  will  be 
upon  you.  —  From  one  who  would  save  you^ 
but  hates  your  cause." 

A  smile  of  scorn  passed  his  lips.  The 
handwriting  was  imknown  and  evidently  dis- 
guised. The  purport  of  the  message  had  not 
alarmed  him;  but  suddenly  a  suspicion 
flashed  upon  him  —  that  it  came  from  Miss 
Faulkner!  She  had  failed  in  her  attempt 
to  pass  through  the  enemy's  lines  —  or  she 
had  never  tried  to.  She  had  deceived  him 
—  or  had  thought  better  of  her  chivalrous 
impulse,  and  now  sought  to  mitigate  her 
second  treachery  by  this  second  warning. 
And  he  had  let  her  messenger  escape  him ! 

He  hurriedly  descended  the  stairs.  The 
sound  of  voices  was  approaching  him.     He 


CLARENCE.  179 

halted,  and  recognized  the  faces  of  the  bri- 
gade surgeon  and  one  of  his  aides-de-camp. 

"We  were  hesitating  whether  to  disturb 
you,  general,  but  it  may  be  an  affair  of  some 
importance.  Under  your  orders  a  negro 
woman  was  just  now  challenged  stealing  out 
of  the  lines.  Attempting  to  escape,  she  was 
chased,  there  was  a  struggle  and  scramble 
over  the  wall,  and  she  fell,  striking  her 
head.  She  was  brought  into  the  guard- 
house unconscious." 

"Very  good.  I  will  see  her,"  said  Brant, 
with  a  feeling  of  relief. 

"  One  moment,  general.  We  thought  you 
would  ]3erhaj)s  prefer  to  see  her  alone,"  said 
the  surgeon,  "for  when  I  endeavored  to 
bring  her  to,  and  was  sponging  her  face  and 
head  to  discover  her  injuries,  her  color  came 
off !  She  was  a  white  woman  —  stained  and 
disguised  as  a  mulatto." 

For  an  instant  Brant's  heart  sank.  It 
was  Miss  Faulkner. 

"Did  you  recognize  her?  "  he  said,  glan- 
cing from  the  one  to  the  other.  "  Have  you 
seen  her  here  before?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  aide-de-camp. 
"But  she  seemed  to  be  quite  a  superior  wo- 
man—  a  lady,  I  should  say." 


180  CLARENCE. 

Brant  breathed  more  freely. 

"AVliere  is  she  now?  "  he  asked. 

"In  the  guardhouse.  We  thought  it  bet- 
ter not  to  bring  her  into  hospital,  among  the 
men,  until  we  had  your  orders." 

"You  have  done  well,"  returned  Brant 
gravely.  "And  you  will  keep  this  to  your- 
selves for  the  present ;  but  see  that  she  is 
brought  here  quietly  and  with  as  little  pub- 
licity as  possible.  Put  her  in  my  room 
above,  which  I  give  up  to  her  and  any  neces- 
sary attendant.  But  you  will  look  carefully 
after  her,  doctor,"  —  he  turned  to  the  sur- 
geon, —  "and  when  she  recovers  conscious- 
ness let  me  know." 

He  moved  away.  Although  attaching 
little  importance  to  the  mysterious  message, 
whether  sent  by  Miss  Faulkner  or  emanat- 
ing from  the  stranger  herself,  which,  he 
reasoned,  was  based  only  upon  a  knowledge 
of  the  original  plan  of  attack,  he  neverthe- 
less quickly  dispatched  a  small  scouting 
party  in  the  direction  from  which  the  attack 
might  come,  with  orders  to  fall  back  and 
report  at  once.  With  a  certain  half  irony 
of  recollection  he  had  selected  Jim  Hooker 
to  accompany  the  party  as  a  volunteer. 
This  done,  he  returned  to  the  gallery.  The 
sursreon  met  him  at  the  door. 


CLARENCE.  181 

"Tlie  indications  of  concussion  are  pass- 
ing away,"  he  said,  "but  she  seems  to  be 
suffering  from  the  exhaustion  following  some 
great  nervous  excitement.  You  may  go  in 
—  she  may  rally  from  it  at  any  moment," 

With  the  artificial  step  and  mysterious 
hush  of  the  ordinary  visitor  to  a  sick  bed, 
Brant  entered  the  room.  But  some  instinct 
greater  than  this  common  expression  of  hu- 
manity held  him  suddenly  in  awe.  The 
room  seemed  no  longer  his  —  it  had  slipped 
back  into  that  austere  conventual  privacy 
which  had  first  impressed  him.  Yet  he 
hesitated;  another  strange  suggestion  —  it 
seemed  ahnost  a  vague  recollection  —  over- 
came him  like  some  lingering  perfume,  far 
off  and  pathetic,  in  its  dying  familiarity. 
He  turned  his  eyes  almost  timidly  towards 
the  bed.  The  coverlet  was  drawn  up  near 
the  throat  of  the  figure  to  replace  the  striped 
cotton  gown  stained  with  blood  and  dust, 
which  had  been  hurriedly  torn  off  and 
thrown  on  a  chair.  The  pale  face,  cleansed 
of  blood  and  disguising  color,  the  long  hair, 
still  damp  from  the  surgeon's  sponge,  lay 
rigidly  back  on  the  pillow.  Suddenly  this 
man  of  steady  nerve  uttered  a  faint  cry, 
and,  with  a  face  as  white  as  the  upturned 


182  CLARENCE. 

one  before  him,  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the 
bed.  For  the  face  that  lay  there  was  his 
wife's! 

Yes,  hers!  But  the  beautiful  hair  that 
she  had  gloried  in  —  the  hair  that  in  his 
youth  he  had  thought  had  once  fallen  like  a 
benediction  on  his  shoulder  —  was  streaked 
with  gray  along  the  blue-veined  hollows  of 
the  temples ;  the  orbits  of  those  clear  eyes, 
beneath  their  delicately  arched  brows,  were 
ringed  with  days  of  suffering;  only  the 
clear-cut  profile,  even  to  the  delicate  impe- 
riousness  of  lips  and  nostril,  was  still  there 
in  all  its  beauty.  The  coverlet  had  slipped 
from  her  shoulder;  its  familiar  cold  contour 
startled  him.  He  remembered  how,  in  their 
early  married  days,  he  had  felt  the  sanctity 
of  that  Diana-like  revelation,  and  the  still 
nymph-like  austerity  which  clung  to  this 
strange,  childless  woman.  He  even  fancied 
that  he  breathed  again  the  subtle  character- 
istic perfume  of  the  laces,  embroideries,  and 
delicate  enwrappings  in  her  chamber  at  Ro- 
bles.  Perhaps  it  was  the  intensity  of  his 
gaze  —  perhaps  it  was  the  magnetism  of  his 
presence  —  but  her  lips  parted  with  a  half 
sigh,  half  moan.  Her  head,  although  her 
eyes  were  still  closed,  turned  on  the  pillow 


CLARENCE.  183 

instinctively  towards  him.  He  rose  from 
Jiis  knees.  Her  eyes  opened  slowly.  As 
the  first  glare  of  wonderment  cleared  from 
them,  they  met  him  —  in  the  old  antagonism 
of  spirit.  Yet  her  first  gesture  was  a  pa- 
thetic feminine  movement  with  both  hands 
to  arrange  her  straggling  hair.  It  brought 
her  white  fingers,  cleaned  of  their  disguis- 
ing stains,  as  a  sudden  revelation  to  her  of 
what  had  happened;  she  instantly  slipped 
them  back  under  the  coverlet  again.  Brant 
did  not  speak,  but  with  folded  arms  stood 
gazing  upon  her.  And  it  was  her  voice  that 
first  broke  the  silence. 

"You  have  recognized  me?  Well,  I  sup- 
pose you  know  all,"  she  said,  with  a  weak 
half -defiance. 

He  bowed  his  head.  He  felt  as  yet  he 
could  not  trust  his  voice,  and  envied  her 
her  own. 

"I  may  sit  up,  may  n't  I?"  She  man- 
aged, by  sheer  foi'ce  of  will,  to  struggle  to  a 
sitting  posture.  Then,  as  the  coverlet 
slipped  from  the  bare  shovdder,  she  said,  as 
she  drew  it,  with  a  shiver  of  disgust,  around 
her  again,  — 

"I  forgot  that  you  strip  women,  you 
Northern  soldiers!     But  I  forgot,  too,"  she 


184  CLARENCE. 

added,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  "that  you  are 
also  my  husband,  and  I  am  in  your  room." 

The  contemptuous  significance  of  her 
speech  dispelled  the  last  lingering  remnant 
of  Brant's  dream.  In  a  voice  as  dry  as  her 
own,  he  said,  — 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  now  have  to  re- 
member only  that  I  am  a  Northern  general, 
and  you  a  Southern  spy." 

"So  be  it,"  she  said  gravely.  Then  im- 
pulsively, "But  I  have  not  spied  on  yow." 

Yet,  the  next  moment,  she  bit  her  lips  as 
if  the  expression  had  unwittingly  escaped 
her ;  and  with  a  reckless  shrug  of  her  shoul- 
ders she  lay  back  on  her  pillow. 

"It  matters  not,"  said  Brant  coldly. 
"You  have  used  this  house  and  those  within 
it  to  forward  your  designs.  It  is  not  your 
fault  that  you  found  nothing  in  the  dispatch- 
box  you  opened." 

She  stared  at  him  quickly ;  then  shrugged 
her  shoulders  again. 

"I  might  have  known  she  was  false  to 
me,"  she  said  bitterly,  "and  that  you  would 
wheedle  her  soul  away  as  you  have  others. 
Well,  she  betrayed  me!     For  what?" 

A  flush  passed  over  Brant's  face.  But 
with  an  effort  he  contained  himself. 


CLARENCE.  185 

"It  was  tlie  flower  that  betrayed  you! 
The  flower  whose  red  dust  fell  m  the  box 
when  you  opened  it  on  the  desk  by  the  win- 
dow in  yonder  room  —  the  flower  that  stood 
in  the  window  as  a  signal  —  the  flower  I 
myself  removed,  and  so  spoiled  the  miser- 
able plot  that  your  friends  concocted." 

A  look  of  mingled  terror  and  awe  came 
into  her  face. 

"  You  changed  the  signal!  "  she  repeated 
dazedly;  then,  in  a  lower  voice,  "that  ac- 
counts for  it  all!"  But  the  next  moment 
she  turned  again  fiercely  upon  him.  "And 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  did  n't  help 
you  —  that  she  did  n't  sell  me  —  your  wife 
—  to  you  for  —  for  what  was  it  ?  A  look  — 
a  kiss!" 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  she  did  not  know  the 
signal  was  changed,  and  that  she  herself 
restored  it  to  its  place.  It  is  no  fault  of  hers 
nor  yours  that  I  am  not  here  a  prisoner." 

She  passed  her  thin  hand  dazedly  across 
her  forehead.    "» 

"I  see,"  she  muttered.  Then  again  burst- 
ing out  passionately,  she  said  —  "  Fool !  you 
never  would  have  been  touched!  Do  you 
think  that  Lee  would  have  gone  for  you, 
with   higher   game    in   your  division    com- 


186  CLARENCE. 

mander  ?  No !  Those  supports  were  a  feint 
to  draw  him  to  your  assistance  while  our 
main  column  broke  his  centre.  Yes,  you 
may  stare  at  me,  Clarence  Brant.  You  are 
a  good  lawyer  —  they  say  a  dashing  fighter, 
too.  I  never  thought  you  a  coward,  even 
in  your  irresolution;  but  you  are  fighting 
with  men  drilled  in  the  art  of  war  and 
strategy  when  you  were  a  boy  outcast  on  the 
plains."  She  stopped,  closed  her  eyes,  and 
then  added,  wearily — "But  that  was  yes- 
terday—  to-day,  who  knows?  All  may  be 
changed.  The  supports  may  still  attack 
you.  That  was  why  I  stopped  to  write  you 
that  note  an  hour  ago,  when  I  believed  I 
should  be  leaving  here  for  ever.  Yes,  I 
did  it!"  she  went  on,  with  half -wearied, 
half -dogged  determination.  "You  may  as 
well  know  all.  I  had  arranged  to  fly.  Your 
pickets  were  to  be  drawn  by  friends  of  mine, 
who  were  waiting  for  me  beyond  your  lines. 
Well,  I  lingered  here  when  I  saw  you  arrive 
—  lingered  to  write  you  that  note.  And  — 
I  was  too  late!  " 

But  Brant  had  been  watching  her  varying 
expression,  her  kindling  eye,  her  strange 
masculine  grasp  of  military  knowledge,  her 
soldierly  phraseology,  all  so  new  to  her,  that 


CLARENCE.  187 

he  scarcely  heeded  the  feminine  ending  of 
her  speech.  It  seemed  to  him  no  longer  the 
Diana  of  his  youtMul  fancy,  but  some  Pal- 
las Athense,  who  now  looked  up  at  him  from 
the  pillow.  He  had  never  before  fully  be- 
lieved in  her  unselfish  devotion  to  the  cause 
until  now,  when  it  seemed  to  have  almost 
unsexed  her.  In  his  wildest  comprehension 
of  her  he  had  never  dreamed  her  a  Joan  of 
Arc,  and  yet  hers  was  the  face  which  might 
have  confronted  him,  exalted  and  inspired, 
on  the  battlefield  itself.  He  recalled  him- 
self with  an  effort. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  would-be  warning," 
he  said  more  gently,  if  not  so  tenderly,  "and 
God  knows  I  wish  your  flight  had  been  suc- 
cessful. But  even  your  warning  is  unneces- 
sary, for  the  supports  had  already  come  up ; 
they  had  followed  the  second  signal,  and 
diverged  to  engage  our  division  on  the  left, 
leaving  me  alone.  And  their  ruse  of  draw- 
ing our  commander  to  assist  me  would  not 
have  been  successful,  as  I  had  suspected  it, 
and  sent  a  message  to  him  that  I  wanted  no 
help." 

It  was  the  truth;  it  was  the  sole  purport 
of  the  note  he  had  sent  through  Miss  Faulk- 
ner.   He  would  not  have  disclosed  his  sacri- 


188  CLARENCE. 

fice;  but  so  great  was  the  strange  domina- 
tion of  this  woman  still  over  him,  that  he 
felt  compelled  to  assert  his  superiority.  She 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"And  Miss  Faulkner  took  your  mes- 
sage?" she  said  slowly.  "Don't  deny  it! 
No  one  else  could  have  passed  through  our 
lines;  and  you  gave  her  a  safe  conduct 
through  yours.  Yes,  I  might  have  known 
it.  And  this  was  the  creature  they  sent  me 
for  an  ally  and  confidant!  " 

For  an  instant  Brant  felt  the  sting  of  this 
enforced  contrast  between  the  two  women. 
But  he  only  said,  — 

"  You  forget  that  I  did  not  know  you  were 
the  spy,  nor  do  I  believe  that  she  suspected 
you  were  my  wife." 

"Why  should  she?"  she  said  almost 
fiercely.  "I  am  known  among  these  people 
only  by  the  name  of  Benliam  —  my  maiden 
name.  Yes! — you  can  take  me  out,  and 
shoot  me  under  that  name,  without  disgra- 
cing yours.  Nobody  will  know  that  the 
Southern  spy  was  the  wife  of  the  Northern 
general!  You  see,  I  have  thought  even  of 
that!" 

"And  thinking  of  that,"  said  Brant 
slowly,  "you  have  put  yourself  —  I  will  not 


CLARENCE.  189 

say  in  my  power,  for  you  are  iu  tlie  power 
of  any  man  in  this  camp  who  may  know 
you,  or  even  hear  you  speak.  Well,  let  us 
understand  each  other  plainly.  I  do  not 
know  how  great  a  sacrifice  your  devotion  to 
your  cause  demands  of  you ;  I  do  know  what 
it  seems  to  demand  of  me.  Hear  me,  then ! 
I  will  do  my  best  to  protect  you,  and  get  you 
safely  away  from  here ;  but,  failing  that,  I 
tell  you  plainly  that  I  shall  blow  out  your 
brains  and  my  own  together." 

She  knew  that  he  would  do  it.  Yet  her 
eyes  suddenly  beamed  with  a  new  and  awak- 
ening light;  she  put  back  her  hair  again, 
and  half  raised  herself  upon  the  pillow,  to 
gaze  at  his  dark,  set  face. 

"And  as  I  shall  let  no  other  life  but  ours 
be  periled  in  this  affair,"  he  went  on  qui- 
etly, "and  will  accompany  you  myself  iu 
some  disguise  beyond  the  lines,  we  will  to- 
gether take  the  risks  —  or  the  bullets  of  the 
sentries  that  may  save  us  both  all  further 
trouble.  An  houi-  or  two  more  will  settle 
that.  Until  then  your  weak  condition  will 
excuse  you  from  any  disturbance  or  intru- 
sion here.  The  mulatto  woman  you  have 
sometimes  personated  may  be  still  in  this 
house ;  I  will  ajjpoint  her  to  attend  you.     I 


190  CLARENCE. 

suppose  you  can  trust  her,  for  you  must  per- 
sonate her  again,  and  escape  in  her  clothes, 
while  she  takes  your  place  in  this  room  as 
my  j)risoner." 

"Clarence!" 

Her  voice  had  changed  suddenly;  it  was 
no  longer  bitter  and  stridulous,  but  low 
and  thrilling  as  he  had  heard  her  call  to  him 
that  night  in  the  patio  of  Robles.  He 
turned  quickly.  She  was  leaning  from  the 
bed  —  her  thin,  white  hands  stretched  ap- 
pealingly  towards  him. 

"Let  us  go  together,  Clarence,"  she  said 
eagerly.  "  Let  us  leave  this  horrible  place  — 
these  wicked,  cruel  people  —  forever.  Come 
with  me !  Come  with  me  to  my  people  —  to 
my  own  faith  —  to  my  own  house  —  which 
shall  be  yours!  Come  with  me  to  defend 
it  with  your  good  sword,  Clarence,  against 
those  vile  invaders  with  whom  you  have 
nothing  in  common,  and  who  are  the  dirt 
under  your  feet.  Yes,  yes !  I  know  it !  —  I 
have  done  you  wrong  —  I  have  lied  to  you 
when  I  spoke  against  your  skill  and  power. 
You  are  a  hero  —  a  born  leader  of  men !  I 
know  it!  Have  I  not  heard  it  from  the 
men  who  have  fought  against  you,  and  yet 
admired   and   understood    you,    ay,    better 


CLARENCE.  191 

than  your  own  ?  —  gallant  men,  Clarence, 
soldiers  bred  wlio  did  not  know  what  you 
were  to  me  nor  how  proud  I  was  of  you 
even  while  I  hated  you?  Come  with  me! 
Think  what  we  would  do  together  —  with  one 
faith  —  one  cause  —  one  ambition !  Think, 
Clarence,  there  is  no  limit  you  might  not 
attain !  We  are  no  niggards  of  our  rewards 
and  honors  —  we  have  no  hireling  votes  to 
truckle  to  —  we  know  our  friends !  Even  I 
—  Clarence  —  I"  —  there  was  a  strange 
pathos  in  the  sudden  humility  that  seemed 
to  overcome  her  —  "I  have  had  my  reward 
and  known  my  power.  I  have  been  sent 
abroad,  in  the  confidence  of  the  highest  —  to 
the  highest.  Don't  turn  from  me.  I  am 
offering  you  no  bribe,  Clarence,  only  your 
deserts.  Come  with  me.  Leave  these  curs 
behind,  and  live  the  hero  that  you  are! " 

He  turned  his  blazing  eyes  upon  her. 

"If  you  were  a  man" — he  began  pas- 
sionately, then  stopped. 

"  No !  I  am  only  a  woman  and  must  fight 
in  a  woman's  way,"  she  interrupted  bitterly. 
"Yes!  I  intreat,  I  implore,  I  wheedle, 
I  flatter,  I  fawn,  I  lie!  I  creep  where  you 
stand  upright,  and  pass  through  doors  to 
which  you  would  not  bow.     You  wear  your 


192  CLARENCE. 

blazon  of  honor  on  your  shoulder;  I  hide 
mine  in  a  slave's  gown.  And  yet  I  have 
worked  and  striven  and  suffered!  Listen, 
Clarence,"  —  her  voice  again  sank  to  its 
appealing  minor,  —  "I  know  what  you  men 
call  '  honor, '  that  which  makes  you  cling  to 
a  merely  spoken  word,  or  an  empty  oath. 
Well,  let  that  pass!  I  am  weary;  I  have 
done  my  share  of  this  work,  you  have  done 
yours.  Let  us  both  fly;  let  us  leave  the 
fight  to  those  who  shall  come  after  us,  and 
let  us  go  together  to  some  distant  land  where 
the  sounds  of  these  guns  or  the  blood  of  our 
brothers  no  longer  cry  out  to  us  for  ven- 
geance !  There  are  those  living  here  — 
I  have  met  them,  Clarence,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly,  "who  think  it  wrong  to  lift  up 
fratricidal  hands  in  the  struggle,  yet  who 
cannot  live  under  the  Northern  yoke.  They 
are,"  her  voice  hesitated,  "good  men  and 
women  —  they  are  resjiected  —  they  are  "  — 
"  Recreants  and  slaves,  before  whom  you, 
spy  as  you  are  —  stand  a  queen!  "  broke  in 
Brant,  passionately.  He  stopped  and  turned 
towards  the  window.  After  a  pause  he 
came  back  again  towards  the  bed  —  paused 
again  and  then  said  in  a  lower  voice  — 
"  Four  years  ago,  Alice,  in  the  patio  of  our 


CLARENCE.  193 

house  at  Robles,  I  miglit  have  listened  to 
this  proposal,  and  —  I  tremble  to  think  —  I 
might  have  accepted  it !  I  loved  you ;  I  was 
as  weak,  as  selfish,  as  unreflecting,  my  life 
was  as  purposeless  —  but  for  you  —  as  the 
creatures  you  speak  of.  But  give  me  now, 
at  least,  the  credit  of  a  devotion  to  my  cause 
equal  to  your  own  —  a  credit  which  I  have 
never  denied  you !  For  the  night  that  you 
left  me,  I  awoke  to  a  sense  of  my  own  worth- 
lessness  and  degradation  — perhaps  I  have 
even  to  thank  you  for  that  awakening  — 
and  I  realized  the  bitter  truth.  But  that 
night  I  found  my  true  vocation  —  my  pur- 
pose, my  manhood  "  — 

A  bitter  laugh  came  from  the  pillow  on 
which  she  had  languidly  thrown  herself. 

"I  believe  I  left  you  with  Mrs.  Hooker 
—  spare  me  the  details." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Brant's  face  and  then 
receded  as  suddenly. 

"You  left  me  with  Captain  Pinckney, 
who  had  tempted  you,  and  whom  I  killed!  " 
he  said  furiously. 

They  were  both  staring  savagely  at  each 
other.  Suddenly  he  said,  "Hush!"  and 
sprang  towards  the  door,  as  the  sound  of 
hurried  footsteps  echoed  along  the  passage. 


194  CLARENCE. 

But  he  was  too  late ;  it  was  thrown  open  to 
the  officer  of  the  guard,  who  appeared, 
standing  on  the  threshold. 

"  Two  Confederate  officers  arrested  hover- 
ing around  our  pickets.  They  demand  to 
see  you." 

Before  Brant  could  interpose,  two  men  in 
riding  cloaks  of  Confederate  gray  stepped 
into  the  room  with  a  jaunty  and  self-confi- 
dent air. 

"Not  demand^  general,"  said  the  fore- 
most, a  tall,  distinguished-looking  man,  lift- 
ing his  hand  with  a  graceful  deprecating  air. 
"In  fact,  too  sorry  to  bother  you  with  an 
affair  of  no  importance  except  to  ourselves. 
A  bit  of  after-dinner  bravado  brought  us  in 
contact  with  your  pickets,  and,  of  course, 
we  had  to  take  the  consequences.  Served  us 
right,  and  we  were  lucky  not  to  have  got  a 
bullet  through  us.  Gad!  I'm  afraid  my 
men  would  have  been  less  discreet!  I  am 
Colonel  Lagrange,  of  the  5th  Tennessee ;  my 
young  friend  here  is  Captain  Faulkner,  of 
the  1st  Kentucky.  Some  excuse  for  a  young- 
ster like  him  —  none  for  me !     I "  — 

He  stopped,  for  his  eyes  suddenly  fell 
upon  the  bed  and  its  occupant.  Both  he 
and  his  companion  started.     But  to  the  nat- 


CLARENCE.  195 

ural,  unaffected  dismay  of  a  gentleman  who 
had  unwittingiy  intruded  upon  a  lady's  bed- 
chamber, Brant's  quick  eye  saw  a  more  dis- 
astrous concern  superadded.  Colonel  La- 
grange was  quick  to  recover  himself,  as  they 
both  removed  their  caps. 

"A thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  hurriedly 
stepping  backwards  to  the  door.  "But  I 
hardly  need  say  to  a  fellow-officer,  general, 
that  we  had  no  idea  of  making  so  gross  an 
intrusion!  We  heard  some  cock-and-bull 
story  of  your  being  occupied  —  cross-ques- 
tioning an  escaped  or  escaping  nigger  —  or 
we  should  never  have  forced  ourselves  upon 

you." 

Brant  glanced  quickly  at  his  wife.  Her 
face  had  apparently  become  rigid  on  the  en- 
trance of  the  two  men  ;  her  eyes  were  coldly 
fixed  upon  the  ceiling.  He  bowed  formally, 
and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the 
door,  said,  — 

"I  will  hear  your  story  below,  gentle- 
man." 

He  followed  them  from  the  room,  stopped 
to  quietly  turn  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  then 
motioned  them  to  precede  him  down  the 
staircase. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

Not  a  word  was  exchanged  till  they  had 
reached  the  lower  landing  and  Brant's  pri- 
vate room.  Dismissing  his  subaltern  and 
orderly  with  a  sign,  Brant  turned  towards 
his  prisoners.  The  jaunty  ease,  but  not  the 
self-possession,  had  gone  from  Lagrange's 
face;  the  eyes  of  Captain  Faulkner  were 
fixed  on  his  older  companion  with  a  half- 
humorous  look  of  perplexity. 

"I  am  afraid  I  can  only  repeat,  general, 
that  our  foolhardy  freak  has  put  us  in  colli- 
sion with  your  sentries,"  said  Lagrange, 
with  a  slight  hauteur,  that  rej)laced  his  for- 
mer jauntiness ;  "  and  we  were  very  properly 
made  prisoners.  If  you  will  accept  my  pa- 
role, I  have  no  doubt  our  commander  will 
proceed  to  exchange  a  couple  of  gallant  fel- 
lows of  yours,  whom  I  have  had  the  honor 
of  meeting  within  our  own  lines,  and  whom 
you  must  miss  probably  more  than  I  fear 
our  superiors  miss  us." 

"Whatever  brought  you  here,   gentle- 


CLARENCE.  197 

men,"  said  Brant  drily,  "I  am  glad,  for 
your  sakes,  that  you  are  in  uniform,  al- 
though it  does  not,  unfortunately,  relieve 
me  of  an  unpleasant  duty." 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  re- 
turned Lagrange,  coldly. 

"If  you  had  not  been  in  uniform,  you 
would  probably  have  been  shot  down  as 
spies,  without  the  trouble  of  capture,"  said 
Brant  quietly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  imply,  sir"  —  began 
Lagrange  sternly. 

"I  mean  to  say  that  the  existence  of 
a  Confederate  spy  between  this  camp  and 
the  division  headquarters  is  sufficiently  well 
known  to  us  to  justify  the  strongest  action." 

"And  pray,  how  can  that  affect  us?" 
said  Lagrange  haughtily. 

"I  need  not  inform  so  old  a  soldier  as 
Colonel  Lagrange  that  the  aiding,  abetting, 
and  even  receiving  information  from  a  spy 
or  traitor  within  one's  lines  is  an  equally 
dangerous  service." 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  satisfy  your- 
self, General,"  said  Colonel  Lagrange,  with 
an  ironical  laugh.  "Pray  do  not  hesitate 
on  account  of  our  uniform.  Search  us  if 
you  like." 


198  CLARENCE. 

"Not  on  entering  my  lines,  Colonel," 
replied  Brant,  with  quiet  significance. 

Lagrange's  cheek  flushed.  But  he  recov- 
ered himself  quickly,  and  with  a  formal 
bow  said,  — 

"You  will,  then,  perhaps,  let  us  know 
your  pleasure?" 

"My  diity.  Colonel,  is  to  keep  you  both 
close  prisoners  here  until  I  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  forward  you  to  the  division  com- 
mander, with  a  report  of  the  circumstances 
of  your  arrest.  That  I  propose  to  do.  How 
soon  I  may  have  that  opportunity,  or  if  I  am 
ever  to  have  it,"  continued  Brant,  fixing  his 
clear  eyes  significantly  on  Lagrange,  "de- 
pends upon  the  chances  of  war,  which  you 
probably  understand  as  well  as  I  do." 

"We  should  never  think  of  making  any 
calculation  on  the  action  of  an  officer  of  such 
infinite  resources  as  General  Brant,"  said 
Lagrange  ironically. 

"You  will,  no  doubt,  have  an  opportun- 
ity of  stating  your  own  case  to  the  division 
commander,"  continued  Brant,  with  an  un- 
moved face.  "And,"  he  continued,  turning 
for  the  first  time  to  Captain  Faulkner," 
"when  you  tell  the  commander  what  I  be- 
lieve to  be  the  fact  —  from  your  name  and 


CLARENCE.  199 

resemblance  —  that  you  are  a  relation  of  the 
young  lady  who  for  the  last  three  weeks  has 
been  an  inmate  of  this  house  under  a  pass 
from  Washington,  you  will,  I  have  no  doubt, 
favorably  explain  your  own  propinquity  to 
my  lines." 

"My  sister  Tilly!  "  said  the  young  of&eer 
impulsively.  "But  she  is  no  longer  here. 
She  passed  through  the  lines  back  to 
Washington  yesterday.  No,"  he  added, 
with  a  light  laugh,  "  I  'm  afraid  that  excuse 
won't  count  for  to-day." 

A  sudden  frown  upon  the  face  of  the  elder 
officer,  added  to  the  perfect  ingenuousness 
of  Faulkner's  speech,  satisfied  Brant  that  he 
had  not  only  elicited  the  truth,  but  that  Miss 
Faulkner  had  been  successful.  But  he  was 
sincere  in  his  suggestion  that  her  relation- 
ship to  the  young  officer  would  incline  the 
division  commander  to  look  leniently  upon 
his  fault,  for  he  was  conscious  of  a  singular 
satisfaction  in  thus  being  able  to  serve  her. 
Of  the  real  object  of  the  two  men  before 
him  he  had  no  doubt.  They  were  "  the 
friends"  of  his  wife,  who  were  waiting  for 
her  outside  the  lines!  Chance  alone  had 
saved  her  from  being  arrested  with  them, 
with  the  consequent  exposure  of  her  treach- 


200  CLARENCE. 

ery  before  liis  own  men,  who,  as  yet,  had  no 
proof  of  her  guilt,  nor  any  suspicion  of  her 
actual  identity.  Meanwhile  his  own  chance 
of  conveying  her  with  safety  beyond  his  lines 
was  not  affected  by  the  incident ;  the  prison- 
ers dare  not  reveal  what  they  knew  of  her, 
and  it  was  with  a  grim  triumph  that  he 
thought  of  compassing  her  escape  without 
their  aid.  Nothing  of  this,  however,  was 
visible  in  his  face,  which  the  younger  man 
watched  with  a  kind  of  boyish  curiosity, 
while  Colonel  Lagrange  regarded  the  ceil- 
ing with  a  politely  repressed  yawn.  "I  re- 
gret," concluded  Brant,  as  he  summoned  the 
officer  of  the  guard,  "that  I  shall  have  to 
deprive  you  of  each  other's  company  during 
the  time  you  are  here ;  but  I  shall  see  that 
you,  separately,  want  for  nothing  in  your 
confinement." 

"If  this  is  with  a  view  to  separate  inter- 
rogatory, general,  I  can  retire  now,"  said 
Lagrange,  rising,  with  ironical  politeness. 

"I  believe  I  have  all  the  information  I 
require,"  returned  Brant,  with  undisturbed 
composure.  Giving  the  necessary  orders  to 
his  subaltern,  he  acknowledged  with  equal 
calm  the  formal  salutes  of  the  two  pris- 
oners as  they  were  led  away,  and  returned 


CLARENCE.  201 

quickly  to  his  bedroom  above.  He  paused 
instinctively  for  a  moment  before  the  closed 
door,  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound 
from  within.  He  unlocked  the  door,  and 
opened  it. 

So  quiet  was  the  interior  that  for  an  in- 
stant, without  glancing  at  the  bed,  he  cast  a 
quick  look  at  the  window,  which,  till  then, 
he  had  forgotten,  and  which  he  remembered 
gave  upon  the  veranda  roof.  But  it  was 
still  closed,  and  as  he  approached  the  bed, 
he  saw  his  wife  still  lying  there,  in  the  atti- 
tude in  which  he  had  left  her.  But  her  eyes 
were  ringed,  and  slightly  filmed,  as  if  with 
recent  tears. 

It  was  perhaps  this  circumstance  that  soft- 
ened his  voice,  still  harsh  with  command,  as 
he  said,  — 

"I  suppose  you  knew  those  two  men?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  that  I  have  put  it  out  of  their 
power  to  help  you?  " 

"I  do." 

There  was  something  so  strangely  submis- 
sive in  her  voice  that  he  again  looked  sus- 
piciously at  her.  But  he  was  shocked  to  see 
that  she  was  quite  pale  now,  and  that  the 
fire  had  gone  out  of  her  dark  eyes. 


202  CLARENCE. 

"Then  I  may  tell  you  what  is  my  plan  to 
save  you.  But,  first,  you  must  find  this  mu- 
latto woman  who  has  acted  as  your  double." 

"She  is  here." 

"Here?" 

"Yes." 

"How  do  you  know  it?  "  he  asked,  in 
quick  suspicion. 

"  She  was  not  to  leave  this  place  until  she 
knew  I  was  safe  within  our  lines.  I  have 
some  friends  who  are  faithful  to  me." 
After  a  pause  she  added,  "She  has  been 
here  already." 

He  looked  at  her,  startled.  "Impossible 
—  I"  — 

"You  locked  the  door.  Yes!  but  she  has 
a  second  key.  And  even  if  she  had  not, 
there  is  another  entrance  from  that  closet. 
You  do  not  know  this  house :  you  have  been 
here  two  weeks;  I  spent  two  years  of  my 
life,  as  a  girl,  in  this  room." 

An  indescribable  sensation  came  over  him ; 
he  remembered  how  he  had  felt  when  he  first 
occupied  it;  this  was  followed  by  a  keen 
sense  of  shame  on  reflecting  that  he  had  been, 
ever  since,  but  a  helpless  puppet  in  the 
power  of  his  enemies,  and  that  she  could 
have  escaped  if  she  would,  even  now. 


CLARENCE.  203 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  grmily,  "you  have 
already  arranged  your  plans?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  singular  re- 
proachfulness  even  in  her  submission. 

"I  have  only  told  her  to  be  ready  to 
change  clothes  with  me  and  helj)  me  color 
my  face  and  hands  at  the  time  aj)]3ointed.  I 
have  left  the  rest  to  you." 

"Then  this  is  my  jilan.  I  have  changed 
only  a  detail.  You  and  she  must  both  leave 
this  house  at  the  same  time,  by  different 
exits,  but  one  of  them  must  be  private  — 
and  unknown  to  my  men.  Do  you  know  of 
such  a  one?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "in  the  rear  of  the  negro 
quarters." 

"Good,"  he  replied,  "that  will  be  your 
way  out.  She  will  leave  here,  publicly, 
through  the  parade,  armed  with  a  pass  from 
me.  She  will  be  overhauled  and  challeng^ed 
by  the  first  sentry  near  the  guardhouse,  be- 
low the  waU.  She  will  be  subjected  to  some 
delay  and  scrutiny,  which  she  will,  however, 
be  able  to  pass  better  than  you  would. 
This  will  create  the  momentary  diversion 
that  we  require.  In  the  mean  time,  you  will 
have  left  the  house  by  the  rear,  aiid  you  will 
then  keep  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  until 


204  CLARENCE. 

you  can  drop  down  along  the  Run,  where 
it  emj^ties  into  the  swamp.  That,"  he  con- 
tinued, fixing  his  keen  eyes  upon  her,  "is 
the  one  weak  point  in  the  position  of  this 
place  that  is  neither  overlooked  nor  de- 
fended. But  perhaps,"  he  added  again 
grimly,  "you  already  know  it." 

"  It  is  the  marsh  where  the  flowers  grow, 
near  the  path  where  you  met  Miss  Faulkner. 
I  had  crossed  the  marsh  to  give  her  a  let- 
ter," she  said  slowly. 

A  bitter  smile  came  over  Brant's  face, 
but  passed  as  quickly. 

"Enough,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  will  meet 
you  beside  the  Run,  and  cross  the  marsh 
with  you  until  you  are  within  hailing  dis- 
tance of  your  lines.  I  will  be  in  plain 
clothes,  Alice,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "for  it 
will  not  be  the  commander  of  this  force  who 
accompanies  you,  but  your  husband,  and, 
without  disgracing  his  uniform,  he  will  drop 
to  your  level;  for  the  instant  he  passes  his 
own  lines,  in  disguise,  he  will  become,  like 
you,  a  spy,  and  amenable  to  its  penalties." 

Her  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  leap  up  to 
his  with  that  strange  look  of  awakening  and 
enthusiasm  which  he  had  noted  before. 
And  in  its  complete  prepossession  of  all  her 


CLARENCE.  205 

instincts  she  rose  from  the  bed,  unheeding 
her  bared  arms  and  shouklers  and  loosened 
hair,  and  stood  upright  before  him.  For 
an  instant  husband  and  wife  regarded  each 
other  as  unreservedly  as  in  their  own  cham- 
ber at  Kobles. 

"When  shall  I  go?" 

He  glanced  through  the  window  already 
growing  lighter  with  the  coming  dawn. 
The  relief  would  pass  in  a  few  moments ;  the 
time  seemed  propitious. 

"At  once,"  he  said.  "I  will  send  Rose 
to  you." 

But  his  wife  had  already  passed  into  the 
closet,  and  was  tapping  upon  some  inner 
door.  He  heard  the  sound  of  hinges  turn- 
ing and  the  rustling  of  garments.  She  re- 
appeared, holding  the  curtains  of  the  closet 
together  with  her  hand,  and  said,  — 

"Go!  When  she  comes  to  your  office 
for  the  pass,  you  will  know  that  I  have 
gone." 

He  turned  away. 

"Stop!  "  she  said  faintly. 

He  turned  back.  Her  expression  had 
again  changed.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale ; 
a  strange  tremor  seemed  to  have  taken  pos- 
session of   her.     Her  hands   dropped  from 


206  CLARENCE. 

the  curtain.  Her  beautiful  arms  moved 
slightly  forward;  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
would  in  the  next  moment  have  extended 
them  towards  him.  But  even  then  she  said 
hurriedly,  "Go!  Go!"  and  slipped  again 
behind  the  curtains. 

He  quickly  descended  the  stairs  as  the 
sound  of  trampling  feet  on  the  road,  and  the 
hurried  word  of  command,  announced  the 
return  of  the  scouting  party.  The  officer 
had  little  report  to  make  beyond  the  fact 
that  a  morning  mist,  creeping  along  the 
valley,  prevented  any  further  observation, 
and  bade  fair  to  interrupt  their  own  com- 
munications with  the  camp.  Everything 
was  quiet  in  the  west,  although  the  en- 
emy's lines  along  the  ridge  seemed  to  have 
receded. 

Brant  had  listened  impatiently,  for  a  new 
idea  had  seized  him.  Hooker  was  of  the 
party,  and  was  the  one  man  in  whom  he 
could  partly  confide,  and  obtain  a  disguise. 
He  at  once  made  his  way  to  the  commissary 
wagons  —  one  of  which  he  knew  Hooker 
used  as  a  tent.  Hastily  telling  him  that  he 
wished  to  visit  the  pickets  without  recogni- 
tion, he  induced  him  to  lend  him  his  slouched 
hat  and  frock  coat,  leaving  with  him  his  own 


CLARENCE.  207 

dlstinguisliing  tunic,  hat,  and  sword.  He 
resisted  the  belt  and  pistols  which  Hooker 
would  have  forced  upon  him.  As  he  left 
the  wagon  he  was  amusedly  conscious  that 
his  old  companion  was  characteristically  ex- 
amining the  garments  he  had  left  behind 
with  mingled  admiration  and  envy.  But  he 
did  not  know,  as  he  slipped  out  of  the  camp, 
that  Mr.  Hooker  was  quietly  trying  them 
on,  before  a  broken  mirror  in  the  wagon- 
head  ! 

The  gray  light  of  that  summer  morning 
was  already  so  strong  that,  to  avoid  detec- 
tion, he  quickly  dropped  into  the  shadow  of 
the  gully  that  sloped  towards  the  Run.  The 
hot  mist  which  the  scouts  had  seen  was  now 
lying  like  a  tranquil  sea  between  him  and 
the  pickets  of  the  enemy's  rear-guard,  which 
it  seemed  to  submerge,  and  was  clinging  in 
moist  tenuous  swathes  —  like  drawn-out  cot- 
ton wool  —  along  the  ridge,  half  obliterating 
its  face.  From  the  valley  in  the  rear  it  was 
already  stealing  in  a  thin  white  line  up  the 
slope  like  the  advance  of  a  ghostly  column, 
with  a  stealthiness  that,  in  spite  of  himself, 
touched  him  with  superstitious  significance. 
A  warm  perfume,  languid  and  treacherous 
—  as  from  the  swamp  magnolia  —  seemed  to 


208  CLARENCE. 

rise  from  the  half -hidden  marsh.  An  om- 
inous silence,  that  appeared  to  be  a  part  of 
this  veiling  of  all  things  under  the  clear 
opal-tinted  sky  above,  was  so  little  like  the 
hush  of  rest  and  peace,  that  he  half -yearned 
for  the  outburst  of  musketry  and  tumult  of 
attack  that  might  dispel  it.  All  that  he 
had  ever  heard  or  dreamed  of  the  insid- 
ious South,  with  its  languid  subtleties  of 
climate  and  of  race,  seemed  to  encompass 
him  here. 

But  the  next  moment  he  saw  the  figure  he 
was  waiting  for  stealing  towards  him  from 
the  shadow  of  the  guUey  beneath  the  negro 
quarters. 

Even  in  that  uncertain  light  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  tall  figure,  the  gaudily  striped 
clinging  gown  and  turbaned  head.  And 
then  a  strange  revulsion  of  feeling,  quite 
characteristic  of  the  emotional  side  of  his 
singular  temperament,  overcame  him.  He 
was  taking  leave  of  his  wife — the  dream  of 
his  youth  —  perhaps  forever !  It  should  be 
no  parting  in  anger  as  at  Robles ;  it  should 
be  with  a  tenderness  that  would  blot  out 
their  past  in  their  separate  memories  —  God 
knows !  it  might  even  be  that  a  parting  at 
that  moment  was  a  joining  of  them  in  eter- 


CLARENCE.  209 

nity.  In  his  momentary  exaltation  it  even 
struck  him  that  it  was  a  duty,  no  less  sacred, 
no  less  unselfish  than  the  one  to  which  he 
had  devoted  his  life.  The  light  was  growing 
stronger ;  he  could  hear  voices  in  the  nearest 
picket  line,  and  the  sound  o£  a  cough  in  the 
invading  mist.  He  made  a  hurried  sign 
to  the  on-coming  figure  to  follow  him,  ran 
ahead,  and  halted  at  last  in  the  cover  of 
a  hackmatack  bush.  Still  gazing  forward 
over  the  marsh,  he  stealthily  held  out  his 
hand  behind  him  as  the  rustling  skirt  came 
nearer.  At  last  his  hand  was  touched  — 
but  even  at  that  touch  he  started  and  turned 
quickly. 

It  was  not  his  wife,  but  Rose !  —  her  mu- 
latto double!  Her  face  was  rigid  with 
fright,  her  beady  eyes  staring  in  their  china 
sockets,  her  white  teeth  chattering.  Yet 
she  would  have  spoken. 

"Hush!  "  he  said,  clutching  her  hand,  in 
a  fierce  whisper.     "Not  a  word!  " 

She  was  holding  something  white  in  her 
fingers;  he  snatched  it  quickly.  It  was  a 
note  from  his  wife  —  not  in  the  disguised 
hand  of  her  first  warning,  but  in  one  that 
he  remembered  as  if  it  were  a  voice  from 
their  past. 


210  CLARENCE. 

"Forgive  me  for  disobeying  you  to  save 
you  from  capture,  disgrace,  or  death  — 
which  would  have  come  to  you  where  you 
were  going!  I  have  taken  Rose's  pass. 
You  need  not  fear  that  your  honor  will  suf- 
fer by  it,  for  if  I  am  stopped  I  shall  confess 
that  I  took  it  from  her.  Think  no  more  of 
me,  Clarence,  but  only  of  yourself.  You 
are  in  danger." 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  in  a  fierce  whisper, 
seizing  her  arm,  "and  speak  low.  When 
did  you  leave  her?  " 

"Sho'ly  just  now!  "  gasped  the  fright- 
ened woman. 

He  flung  her  aside.  There  might  be 
still  time  to  overtake  and  save  her  before  she 
reached  the  picket  lines.  He  ran  up  the 
gully,  and  out  on  to  the  slojie  towards  the 
first  guard-post.  But  a  familiar  challenge 
reached  his  ear,  and  his  heart  stopped  beat- 
ing. 

"Who  goes  there?" 

There  was  a  pause,  a  rattle  of  arms  — 
voices  —  another  pause  —  and  Brant  stood 
breathlessly  listening.  Then  the  voice  rose 
again  slowly  and  clearly :  "  Pass  the  mulatto 
woman ! " 


CLARENCE.  211 

Thank  God !  she  was  saved !  But  the 
thought  had  scarcely  crossed  his  mind  before 
it  seemed  to  him  that  a  blinding  crackle  of 
sparks  burst  out  along  the  whole  slope  be- 
low the  wall,  a  characteristic  yell  which  he 
knew  too  well  rang  in  his  ears,  and  an  un- 
dulating line  of  dusty  figures  came  leaping 
like  gray  wolves  out  of  the  mist  upon  his 
pickets.  He  heard  the  shouts  of  his  men 
falling  back  as  they  fired;  the  harsh  com- 
mands of  a  few  officers  hurrying  to  their 
posts,  and  knew  that  he  had  been  hopelessly 
surprised  and  surrounded! 

He  ran  forward  among  his  disorganized 
men.  To  his  consternation  no  one  seemed 
to  heed  him!  Then  the  remembrance  of 
his  disguise  flashed  upon  him.  But  he  had 
only  time  to  throw  away  his  hat  and  snatch 
a  sword  from  a  falling  lieutenant,  before  a 
scorching  flash  seemed  to  pass  before  his 
eyes  and  burn  through  his  hair,  and  he 
dropped  like  a  log  beside  his  subaltern. 

An  aching  under  the  bandage  around  his 
head  where  a  spent  bullet  had  grazed  his 
scalp,  and  the  sound  of  impossible  voices  in 
his  ears  were  all  he  knew  as  he  struggled 
slowly  back  to  consciousness  again.     Even 


212  CLARENCE. 

then  it  still  seemed  a  delusion,  —  for  he 
was  lying  on  a  cot  in  his  own  hospital,  yet 
with  officers  of  the  division  staff  around 
him,  and  the  division  commander  himself 
standing  by  his  side,  and  regarding  him 
with  an  air  of  grave  but  not  unkindly  con- 
cern. But  the  wounded  man  felt  instinc- 
tively that  it  was  not  the  effect  of  his  physi- 
cal condition,  and  a  sense  of  shame  came 
suddenly  over  him,  which  was  not  dissipated 
by  his  superior's  words.  For,  motioning 
the  others  aside,  the  major-general  leaned 
over  his  cot,  and  said,  — 

"Until  a  few  moments  ago,  the  report  was 
that  you  had  been  captured  in  the  first  rush 
of  the  rear -guard  which  we  were  rolling  up 
for  your  attack,  and  when  you  were  picked 
up,  just  now,  in  plain  clothes  on  the  slope, 
you  were  not  recognized.  The  one  thing 
seemed  to  be  as  improbable  as  the  other," 
he  added  significantly. 

The  miserable  truth  flashed  across  Brant's 
mind.  Hooker  must  have  been  captured  in 
his  clothes  —  perhaps  in  some  extravagant 
sally  —  and  had  not  been  recognized  in  the 
confusion  by  his  own  officers.  Nevertheless, 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  his  superior. 

"You  got  my  note?  " 


CLARENCE.  213 

The  general's  brow  darkened. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  findmg  you 
thus  unprepared — -  I  had  been  thinking 
just  now  that  you  had  been  deceived  by  that 
woman  — or  by  others  —  and  that  it  was  a 
clumsy  forgery."  He  stopped,  and  seeing 
the  hopeless  bewilderment  in  the  face  of  the 
wounded  man,  added  more  kindly:  "But 
we  will  not  talk  of  that  in  your  present  con- 
dition. The  doctor  says  a  few  hours  will 
put  you  straight  again.  Get  strong,  for  I 
want  you  to  lose  no  time  —  for  your  own  sake 
—  to  report  yourself  at  Washington." 

"  Report  myself  —  at  Washington !  "  re- 
peated Brant  slowly. 

"That  was  last  night's  order,"  said  the 
commander,  with  military  curtness.  Then 
he  burst  out:  "I  don't  understand  it, 
Brant!  I  believe  you  have  been  misunder- 
stood, misrepresented,  perhaps  maligned  — 
and  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  see  the 
thing  through  —  but  those  are  the  Depart- 
ment orders.  And  for  the  j)resent  —  I  am 
sorry  to  say  you  are  relieved  of  your  com- 
mand." 

He  turned  away,  and  Brant  closed  his 
eyes.  With  them  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
closed  his  career.     No  one  would  ever  un- 


214  CLARENCE. 

derstand  his  explanation  —  even  had  he  been 
tempted  to  give  one,  and  he  knew  he  never 
would.  Everything  was  over  now!  Even 
this  wretched  bullet  had  not  struck  him 
fairly,  and  culminated  his  fate  as  it  might! 
For  an  instant,  he  recalled  his  wife's  last 
offer  to  fly  with  him  beyond  the  seas  —  be- 
yond this  cruel  injustice  —  but  even  as  he 
recalled  it,  he  knew  that  flight  meant  the 
worst  of  all  —  a  half-conf ession !  But  she 
had  escaped !  Thank  God  for  that !  Again 
and  again  in  his  hopeless  perplexity  this  com- 
fort returned  to  him,  —  he  had  saved  her ; 
he  had  done  his  duty.  And  harping  upon 
this  in  his  strange  fatalism,  it  at  last  seemed 
to  him  that  this  was  for  what  he  had  lived 

—  for  what  he  had  suffered  —  for  what  he 
had  fitly  ended  his  career.  Perhaps  it  was 
left  for  him  now  to  pass  his  remaining  years 
in  forgotten  exile  —  even  as  his  father  had 

—  his  father !  —  his  breath  came  quickly 
at  the  thought  —  God  knows !  perhaps  as 
wrongfully  accused!  It  may  have  been  a 
Providence  that  she  had  borne  him  no  child, 
to  whom  this  dreadful  heritage  could  be 
again  transmitted. 

There  was  something  of  this  strange  and 
fateful  resignation  in  his  face,  a  few  hours 


CLARENCE.  215 

later,  wten  he  was  able  to  be  helped  again 
into  the  saddle.  But  he  could  see  in  the 
eyes  of  the  few  comrades  who  commiser- 
atingly  took  leave  of  him,  a  vague,  half- 
repressed  awe  of  some  indefinite  weakness 
in  the  man,  that  mingled  with  their  heart- 
felt parting  with  a  gallant  soldier.  Yet 
even  this  touched  him  no  longer.  He  cast 
a  glance  at  the  house  and  the  room  where  he 
had  parted  from  her,  at  the  slope  from 
which  she  had  passed  —  and  rode  away. 

And  then,  as  his  figure  disappeared  down 
the  road,  the  restrained  commentary  of  won- 
der, surmise,  and  criticism  broke  out :  — 

"It  must  have  been  something  mighty 
bad,  for  the  old  man,  who  swears  by  him, 
looked  rather  troubled.  And  it  was  deuced 
queer,  you  know,  this  changing  clothes  with 
somebody,  just  before  this  surprise!  " 

"Nonsense I  It  's  something  away  back 
of  that!  Did  n't  you  hear  the  old  man  say 
that  the  orders  for  him  to  report  himself 
came  from  Washington  Zas^  night f  No!" 
—  the  speaker  lowered  his  voice  —  "  Strange- 
ways  says  that  he  had  regularly  sold  himself 

out  to  one  of  them  d d    secesh  woman 

spies!  It  's  the  old  Marc  Antony  business 
over  again! " 


216  CLARENCE. 

"Now  I  think  of  it,"  said  a  younger  sub- 
altern, "lie  did  seem  mightily  taken  with 
one  of  those  quadroons  or  mulattoes  he 
issued  orders  against.  I  suppose  that  was  a 
blind  for  us !  I  remember  the  first  day  he 
saw  her ;  he  was  regularly  keen  to  know  aU 
about  her." 

Major  Curtis  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"That  mulatto,  Martin,  was  a  white  wo- 
man, burnt-corked !  She  was  trying  to  get 
through  the  lines  last  night,  and  fell  off  a 
wall  or  got  a  knock  on  the  head  from  a  sen- 
try's carbine.  When  she  was  brought  in, 
Doctor  Simmons  set  to  washing  the  blood 
off  her  face ;  the  cork  came  off  and  the  whole 
thing  came  out.  Brant  hushed  it  up  —  and 
the  woman,  too  —  in  his  own  quarters!  It 's 
supposed  now  that  she  got  away  somehow  in 
the  rush!  " 

"It  goes  further  back  than  that,  gentle- 
men," said  the  adjutant  authoritatively. 
"  They  say  his  wife  was  a  howling  secession- 
ist, four  years  ago,  in  California,  was  mixed 
up  in  a  conspiracy,  and  he  had  to  leave  on 
account  of  it.  Look  how  thick  he  and  that 
Miss  Faulkner  became,  before  he  helped  lier 
off!" 

"That  's    your    jealousy,     Tommy;     she 


CLARENCE.  217 

knew  lie  was,  by  all  odds,  the  biggest  man 
here,  and  a  good  deal  more,  too,  and  you 
had  no  show!" 

In  the  laugh  that  followed,  it  would  seem 
that  Brant's  eulogy  had  been  spoken  and 
forgotten.  But  as  Lieutenant  Martin  was 
turning  away,  a  lingering  corporal  touched 
his  cap. 

"You  were  speaking  of  those  prowling 
mulattoes,  sir.  You  know  the  general 
passed  one  out  this  morning." 

"So  I  have  heard." 

"I  reckon  she  did  n't  get  very  far.  It 
was  just  at  the  time  that  we  were  driven  in 
by  their  first  fire,  and  I  think  she  got  her 
share  of  it,  too.  Do  you  mind  walking  this 
way,  sir!  " 

The  lieutenant  did  not  mind,  although  he 
rather  languidly  followed.  When  they  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  gully,  the  corporal 
pointed  to  what  seemed  to  be  a  bit  of  striped 
calico  hanging  on  a  thorn  bush  in  the  ra- 
vine. 

"That's  her,"  said  the  corporal.  "I 
know  the  dress ;  I  was  on  guard  when  she 
was  passed.  The  searchers,  who  were  pick- 
ing up  our  men,  have  n't  got  to  her  yet; 
but  she  aiu't  moved  or  stirred  these  two 


218  CLARENCE. 

hours.  Would  you  like  to  go  down  and  see 
her?  " 

The  lieutenant  hesitated.  He  was  young, 
and  slightly  fastidious  as  to  unnecessary  un- 
pleasantness. He  believed  he  would  wait 
until  the  searchers  brought  her  up,  when  the 
corporal  might  call  him. 

The  mist  came  up  gloriously  from  the 
swamp  like  a  golden  halo.  And  as  Clar- 
ence Brant,  already  forgotten,  rode  moodily 
through  it  towards  Washington,  hugging  to 
his  heart  the  solitary  comfort  of  his  great 
sacrifice,  his  wife,  Alice  Brant,  for  whom  he 
had  made  it,  was  lying  in  the  ravine,  dead 
and  uncared  for.  Perhaps  it  was  part  of 
the  inconsistency  of  her  sex  that  she  was 
pierced  with  the  bullets  of  those  she  had 
loved,  and  was  wearing  the  garments  of  the 
race  that  she  had  wronged. 


PART   III. 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  sunset  of  a  hot  day  at  Washing- 
ton. Even  at  that  hour  the  broad  avenues, 
which  diverged  from  the  Capitol  like  the 
rays  of  another  sun,  were  fierce  and  glitter- 
ing. The  sterile  distances  between  glowed 
more  cruelly  than  ever,  and  pedestrians, 
keeping  in  the  scant  shade,  hesitated  on  the 
curbstones  before  plunging  into  the  Sahara- 
like waste  of  crossings.  The  city  seemed 
deserted.  Even  that  vast  army  of  contrac- 
tors, speculators,  place-hunters,  and  lobby- 
ists, which  hung  on  the  heels  of  the  other 
army,  and  had  turned  this  pacific  camp  of 
the  nation  into  a  battlefield  of  ignoble  con- 
flict and  contention  —  more  disastrous  than 
the  one  to  the  South  —  had  slunk  into  their 
holes  in  hotel  back  bedrooms,  in  shady  bar- 
rooms, or  in  the  negro  quarters  of  George- 
town, as  if  the  majestic,  white-robed  God- 
dess enthroned  upon  the  dome  of  the  Capitol 
had  at  last  descended  among:  them  and  was 


220  CLARENCE. 

smiting  to  right  and  left  with  the  flat  and 
flash  of  her  insufferable  sword. 

Into  this  stifling  atmosphere  of  greed  and 
corruption  Clarence  Brant  stepped  from  the 
shadow  of  the  War  Department.  For  the 
last  three  weeks  he  had  haunted  its  ante- 
rooms and  audience-chambers,  in  the  vain 
hope  of  righting  himself  before  his  superi- 
ors, who  were  content,  without  formulating 
charges  against  him,  to  keep  him  in  this 
disgrace  of  inaction  and  the  anxiety  of  sus- 
pense. Unable  to  ascertain  the  details  of 
the  accusation,  and  conscious  of  his  own 
secret,  he  was  debarred  the  last  resort  of 
demanding  a  court-martial,  which  he  knew 
could  only  exonerate  him  by  the  exposure  of 
the  guilt  of  his  wife,  whom  he  still  hoped 
had  safely  escaped.  His  division  comman- 
der, in  active  operations  in  the  field,  had  no 
time  to  help  him  at  Washington.  Elbowed 
aside  by  greedy  contractors,  forestalled  by 
selfish  politicians,  and  disdaining  the  ordi- 
nary method  of  influence,  he  had  no  friend 
to  turn  to.  In  his  few  years  of  campaign- 
ing he  had  lost  his  instinct  of  diplomacy, 
without  acquiring  a  soldier's  bluntness. 

The  nearly  level  rays  of  the  sun  forced 
him  at   last  to  turn  aside  into  one  of   the 


CLARENCE.  221 

openings  of  a  large  building  —  a  famous 
caravansary  of  that  hotel-liaunted  capital, 
and  he  presently  found  himself  in  the  luxu- 
rious bar-room,  fragrant  with  mint,  and  cool 
with  ice-slabs  piled  symmetrically  on  its 
marble  counters.  A  few  groups  of  men 
were  seeking  coolness  at  small  tables  with 
glasses  before  them  and  palm-leaf  fans  in 
their  hands,  but  a  larger  and  noisier  assem- 
blage was  collected  before  the  bar,  where  a 
man,  coUarless  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with 
his  back  to  the  counter,  was  pretentiously 
addressing  them.  Brant,  who  had  moodily 
dropped  into  a  chair  in  the  corner,  after  or- 
dering a  cooling  drink  as  an  excuse  for  his 
temporary  refuge  from  the  stifling  street, 
haK-regretted  his  enforced  participation  in 
their  conviviality.  But  a  sudden  lowering 
of  the  speaker's  voice  into  a  note  of  gloomy 
significance  seemed  familiar  to  him.  He 
glanced  at  him  quickly,  from  the  shadow  of 
his  corner.  He  was  not  mistaken  —  it  was 
Jim  Hooker! 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Brant  wished 
to  evade  him.  In  the  days  of  his  own  pros- 
perity his  heart  had  always  gone  out  towards 
this  old  companion  of  his  boyhood;  in  his 
present  himiiliation  his  presence  jarred  upon 


222  CLARENCE. 

him.  He  would  have  slipped  away,  hut  to 
do  so  he  would  have  had  to  pass  before  the 
counter  again,  and  Hooker,  with  the  self- 
consciousness  of  a  story-teller,  had  an  eye 
on  his  audience.  Brant,  with  a  pahn-leaf 
fan  before  his  face,  was  obliged  to  listen. 

"Yes,  gentlemen,"  said  Hooker,  examin- 
ing his  glass  dramatically,  "when  a  man  's 
been  cooped  up  in  a  Rebel  prison,  with  a 
death  line  before  him  that  he  's  obliged  to 
cross  every  time  he  wants  a  square  drink,  it 
seems  sort  of  like  a  dream  of  his  boyhood  to 
be  standin'  here  comf'ble  before  his  liquor, 
alongside  o'  white  men  once  more.  And 
when  he  knows  he  's  bin  jDut  to  all  that 
trouble  jest  to  save  the  reputation  of  another 
man,  and  the  secrets  of  a  few  high  and 
mighty  ones,  it 's  almost  enough  to  make  his 
liquor  go  agin  him."  He  stopped  theat- 
rically, seemed  to  choke  emotionally  over 
his  brandy  squash,  but  with  a  pause  of  dra- 
matic determination  finally  dashed  it  down. 
"No,  gentlemen,"  he  continued  gloomily, 
"I  don't  say  what  I  'm  back  in  Washington 
for  —  I  don't  say  what  I  've  been  sayin'  to 
myself  when  I  've  bin  picking  the  weevils 
outer  my  biscuits  in  Libby  Prison  —  but  ef 
you  don't  see  some  pretty  big  men  in  the 


CLARENCE.  223 

War  Department  obliged  to  climb  down  in 
tlie  next  few  days,  my  name  ain't  Jim 
Hooker,  of  Hooker,  Meacbam  &  Co.,  Army 
Beef  Contractors,  and  the  man  who  saved 
the  fight  at  Gray  Oaks!  " 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  that  went  around 
his  audience  —  an  audience  quick  to  seize 
the  weakness  of  any  performance  —  might 
have  startled  a  vanity  less  oblivious  than 
Hooker's;  but  it  only  aroused  Brant's  in- 
dignation and  pity,  and  made  his  position 
still  more  intolerable.  But  Hooker,  scorn- 
fully expectorating  a  thin  stream  of  tobacco 
juice  against  the  spittoon,  remained  for  an 
instant  gloomily  silent. 

"Tell  us  about  the  fight  again,"  said  a 
smiling  auditor. 

Hooker  looked  around  the  room  with  a 
certain  dark  suspiciousness,  and  then,  in  an 
affected  lower  voice,  which  his  theatrical  ex- 
perience made  perfectly  audible,  went  on :  — 

"  It  ain't  much  to  speak  of,  and  if  it 
was  n't  for  the  principle  of  the  thing,  I 
would  n't  be  talking.  A  man  who  's  seen 
Injin  fightin'  don't  go  much  on  this  here 
West  Point  fightin'  by  rule-of -three  — ■  but 
that  ain't  here  or  there!  Well,  I  'd  bin  out 
a-scoutin'  —  just  to  help  the  boys  along,  and 


224  CLARENCE. 

I  was  sittin'  in  my  wagon  about  daybreak, 
when  along  comes  a  brigadier-general,  and 
he  looks  into  the  wagon  flap.  I  oughter 
to  tell  you  first,  gentlemen,  that  every  minit 
he  was  expecting  an  attack  — but  he  didn't 
let  on  a  hint  of  it  to  me.  'How  are  you, 
Jim?'  said  he.  'How  are  you,  general?' 
said  I.  'Would  you  mind  lendin'  me  your 
coat  and  hat?  '  says  he.  '  I  've  got  a  little 
game  here  with  our  pickets,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  recognized.'  'Anything  to 
oblige,  general,'  said  I,  and  with  that  I 
strips  off  my  coat  and  hat,  and  he  peels  and 
puts  them  on.  'Nearly  the  same  figure, 
Jim,'  he  says,  lookin'  at  me,  'suppose  you 
try  on  my  things  and  see. '  With  that  he 
hands  me  his  coat  —  full  uniform,  by  G — d ! 

—  with  the  little  gold  cords  and  laces  and 
the  epaulettes  with  a  star,  and  I  puts  it  on 

—  quite  innocent-like.  And  then  he  says, 
handin'  me  his  sword  and  belt,  'Same  inches 
round  the  waist,  I  reckon, '  and  I  puts  that 
on  too.  'You  may  as  well  keep  'em  on 
till  I  come  back,'  says  he,  'for  it 's  mighty 
damp  and  malarious  at  this  time  around 
the  swamp. '  And  with  that  he  lights  out. 
Well,  gentlemen,  I  hadn't  sat  there  five 
minutes  before  Bang!  bang!  rattle!  rattle! 


CLARENCE.  225 

kershiz !  and  I  hears  a  yell.  I  steps  out  of 
the  wagon  ;  everything  's  quite  dark,  but 
the  rattle  goes  on.  Then  along  trots  an 
orderly,  leadin'  a  horse.  'Mount,  general,' 
he  says,  'we  'reattached  —  the  rear -guard  's 
on  us! '  " 

He  paused,  looked   round  his    audience, 
and  then  in  a  lower  voice,  said  darkly,  — 

"I  ain't  a  fool,  an'  in  that  minute  a  man's 
brain  works  at  high  pressure,  and  I  saw  it 
all !  I  saw  the  little  game  of  the  brigadier 
—  to  skunk  away  in  my  clothes  and  leave 
me  to  be  caj)tured  in  his.  But  I  ain't  a  dog 
neither,  and  I  mounted  that  horse,  gentle- 
men, and  lit  out  to  where  the  men  were 
formin'!  I  didn't  dare  to  speak,  lest  they 
should  know  me,  but  I  waved  my  sword, 
and  by  G — d !  they  followed  me !  And  the 
next  minit  we  was  in  the  thick  of  it.  I  had 
my  hat  as  full  of  holes  as  that  ice  strainer ; 
I  had  a  dozen  bullets  through  my  coat,  the 
fringe  of  my  epaulettes  was  shot  away,  but 
I  kept  the  boys  at  their  work  —  and  we 
stopped  'em!  Stopped  'em,  gentlemen, 
until  we  heard  the  bugles  of  the  rest  of  our 
division,  that  all  this  time  had  been  rolling 
that  blasted  rear-guard  over  on  us !  And  it 
saved   the  fight;  but  the   next   minute  the 


226  CLARENCE. 

Johnny  Rebs  made  a  last  clash  and  cut  me 
off  —  and  there  I  was  —  by  G — d,  a  pris- 
oner!    Me  that  had  saved  the  fight!  " 

A  ripple  of  ironical  applause  went  round 
as  Hooker  gloomily  drained  his  glass,  and 
then  held  up  his  hand  in  scornful  depreca- 
tion. 

"I  said  I  was  a  prisoner,  gentlemen,"  he 
went  on  bitterly;  "  but  that  ain't  all!  I 
asked  to  see  Johnston,  told  him  what  I  had 
done,  and  demanded  to  be  exchanged  for  a 

general  officer.     He  said,  '  You  be  d d. ' 

I  then  sent  word  to  the  division  command- 
er-in-chief, and  told  him  how  I  had  saved 
Gray  Oaks   when   his  brigadier  ran  away, 

and  he  said,  '  You  be  d d. '     I  've  bin 

'  You  be  d d '  from  the  lowest  non-com. 

to  the  commander-in-chief,  and  when  I  was 
at  last  exchanged,  I  was  exchanged,  gentle- 
men, for  two  mules  and  a  broken  wagon. 
But  I  'm  here,  gentlemen  —  as  I  was  thar !  " 

"Why  don't  you  see  the  President  about 
it?"  asked  a  bystander,  in  affected  com- 
miseration. 

Mr.  Hooker  stared  contemptuously  at  the 
suggestion,  and  expectorated  his  scornful 
dissent. 

"Not  much!  "  he  said.     "But  I  'm  going 


CLARENCE.  227 

to  see  the  man  that  carries  him  and  his  Cab- 
inet in  his  breeches-pocket  —  Senator  Boom- 
pointer." 

"Boompointer  's  a  big  man,"  continued 
his  auditor  doubtfully.  "Do  you  know 
him?" 

"Know  him?  "  Mr.  Hooker  laughed  a 
bitter,  sardonic  laugh.  "Well,  gentlemen,  I 
ain't  the  kind  o'  man  to  go  in  for  family  in- 
fluence; but,"  he  added,  with  gloomy  eleva- 
tion, "considering  he  's  an  intimate  relation 
of  mine,  hy  marriage.,  I  should  say  I  did." 

Brant  heard  no  more ;  the  facing  around 
of  his  old  companion  towards  the  bar  gave 
him  that  opportunity  of  escaping  he  had 
been  waiting  for.  The  defection  of  Hooker 
and  his  peculiar  inventions  were  too  char- 
acteristic of  him  to  excite  surprise,  and, 
although  they  no  longer  awakened  his  good- 
humored  tolerance,  they  were  powerless  to 
affect  him  in  his  greater  trouble.  Only  one 
thing  he  learned  —  that  Hooker  knew  no- 
thing of  his  wife  being  in  camp  as  a  spy  — 
the  incident  would  have  been  too  tempting 
to  have  escaped  his  dramatic  embellishment. 
And  the  allusion  to  Senator  Boompointer, 
monstrous  as  it  seemed  in  Hooker's  mouth, 
gave  him  a  grim  temptation.    He  had  heard 


228  CLARENCE. 

of  Boompointer's  wonderful  power;  he  be- 
lieved tliat  Susy  would  and  could  help  him 
—  Clarence  —  whether  she  did  or  did  not 
help  Hooker.  But  the  next  moment  he 
dismissed  the  idea,  with  a  flushing  cheek. 
How  low  had  he  already  sunk,  even  to  think 
of  it! 

It  had  been  once  or  twice  in  his  mind  to 
seek  the  President,  and,  under  a  promise  of 
secrecy,  reveal  a  part  of  his  story.  He  had 
heard  many  anecdotes  of  his  goodness  of 
heart  and  generous  tolerance  of  all  things, 
but  with  this  was  joined  —  so  said  contem- 
poraneous history  —  a  flippancy  of  speech 
and  a  brutality  of  directness  from  which 
Clarence's  sensibility  shrank.  Would  he 
see  anything  in  his  wife  but  a  common  spy 
on  his  army ;  would  he  see  anj^thing  in  him 
but  the  weak  victim,  like  many  others,  of  a 
scheming  woman?  Stories  current  in  camp 
and  Congress  of  the  way  that  this  grim  hu- 
morist had,  with  an  apposite  anecdote  or  a 
rugged  illustration,  brushed  away  the  most 
delicate  sentiment  or  the  subtlest  poetry, 
even  as  he  had  exposed  the  sham  of  Puri- 
tanic morality  or  of  Epicurean  ethics.  Brant 
had  even  solicited  an  audience,  but  had  re- 
tired awkwardly,  and   with  his   confidence 


CLARENCE.  229 

unspoken,  before  the  dark,  humorous  eyes, 
that  seemed  ahuost  too  tolerant  of  his  griev- 
ance. He  had  been  to  levees,  and  his  heart 
had  sunk  equally  before  the  vulgar  crowd, 
who  seemed  to  regard  this  man  as  their  own 
buffoon,  and  the  pompousness  of  position, 
learning  and  dignity,  which  he  seemed  to 
delight  to  shake  and  disturb. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  later,  in  sheer 
listlessness  of  purpose,  he  found  himself 
again  at  the  White  House.  The  President 
was  giving  audience  to  a  deputation  of  fan- 
atics, who,  with  a  pathetic  simplicity  almost 
equal  to  his  own  pathetic  tolerance,  were 
urging  upon  this  ruler  of  millions  the  policy 
of  an  insignificant  score,  and  Brant  listened 
to  his  patient,  practical  response  of  facts 
and  logic,  clothed  in  simple  but  sinewy 
English,  up  to  the  inevitable  climax  of  hu- 
morous illustration,  which  the  young  briga- 
dier could  now  see  was  necessary  to  relieve 
the  grimness  of  his  refusal.  For  the  first 
time  Brant  felt  the  courage  to  address  him, 
and  resolved  to  wait  until  the  deputation  re- 
tired. As  they  left  the  gallery  he  lingered 
in  the  ante -room  for  the  President  to  ap- 
pear. But,  as  he  did  not  come,  afraid  of 
losing  his  chances,  he  returned  to  the  gallery. 


230  CLARENCE. 

Alone  in  his  privacy  and  shadow,  the  man 
he  had  just  left  was  standing  by  a  column, 
in  motionless  abstraction,  looking  over  the 
distant  garden.  But  the  kindly,  humorous 
face  was  almost  tragic  with  an  intensity  of 
weariness!  Every  line  of  those  strong, 
rustic  features  was  relaxed  under  a  burden 
which  even  the  long,  lank,  angular  figure  — 
overgrown  and  unfinished  as  his  own  West 
—  seemed  to  be  distorted  in  its  efforts  to 
adjust  itself  to ;  while  the  dark,  deep  -  set 
eyes  were  abstracted  with  the  vague  pre- 
science of  the  prophet  and  the  martyr. 
Shocked  at  that  sudden  change,  Brant  felt 
his  cheek  burn  with  shame.  And  he  was 
about  to  break  upon  that  wearied  man's  un- 
bending ;  he  was  about  to  add  his  petty  bur- 
den to  the  shoulders  of  this  Western  Atlas. 
He  drew  back  silently,  and  descended  the 
stairs. 

But  before  he  had  left  the  house,  while 
mingling  with  the  crowd  in  one  of  the  larger 
rooms,  he  saw  the  President  reappear  beside 
an  important,  prosperous-looking  figure,  on 
whom  the  kindly  giant  was  now  smiling  with 
humorous  toleration.  He  noticed  the  di- 
vided attention  of  the  crowd;  the  name  of 
Senator  Boompointer  was  upon   every  lip: 


CLARENCE.  231 

he  was  nearlj'^  face  to  face  with  that  famous 
dispenser  of  place  and  preferment  —  this 
second  husband  of  Susy !  An  indescribable 
feeling  —  half  cynical,  half  f atef id  —  came 
over  him.  He  would  not  have  been  sur- 
prised to  see  Jim  Hooker  join  the  throng, 
which  now  seemed  to  him  to  even  dwarf 
the  lonely  central  figure  that  had  so  lately 
touched  him !     He  wanted  to  escape  it  all ! 

But  his  fate  brought  him  to  the  entrance 
at  the  same  moment  that  Boompointer  was 
leaving  it,  and  that  distinguished  man 
brushed  hastily  by  him  as  a  gorgeous  car- 
riage, drawn  by  two  spirited  horses,  and 
driven  by  a  resplendent  negro  coachman, 
dashed  up.  It  was  the  Boompointer  car- 
riage. 

A  fashionably  -  dressed,  pretty  woman, 
who,  in  style,  bearing,  opulent  contentment, 
and  ingenuous  self  -  consciousness,  was  in 
perfect  keeping  with  the  slight  ostentation 
of  the  equipage,  was  its  only  occupant.  As 
Boompointer  stepped  into  the  vehicle,  her 
blue  eyes  fell  for  an  instant  on  Brant.  A 
happy,  childlike  pink  flush  came  into  her 
cheeks,  and  a  violet  ray  of  recognition  and 
mischief  darted  from  her  eyes  to  his.  For 
it  was  Susy. 


CHAPTER   11. 

When  Brant  returned  to  his  hotel  there 
was  an  augmented  respect  in  the  voice  of 
the  clerk  as  he  handed  him  a  note  with  the 
remark  that  it  had  been  left  by  Senator 
Boompointer's  coachman.  He  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  recognizing  Susy's  peculiarly  Brob- 
dingnagian  school-girl  hand. 

"Kla'uns,  I  call  it  real  mean!  I  believe 
you  jnst  hoped  I  wouldn't  know  you.  If 
you  're'  a  bit  like  your  old  self  you  '11  come 
right  off  here  —  this  very  night !  I  've  got 
a  big  party  on  —  but  we  can  talk  somewhere 
between  the  acts!  Haven't  I  growed? 
Tell  me!  And  my!  what  a  gloomy  swell 
the  young  brigadier  is !  The  carriage  will 
come  for  you  —  so  you  have  no  excuse." 

The  effect  of  this  childish  note  upon  Brant 
was  strangely  out  of  proportion  to  its  triv- 
iality. But  then  it  was  Susy's  very  triv- 
iality—  so  expressive  of  her  characteristic 
irresponsibility  —  which  had  always  affected 
him  at  such  moments.    Again,  as  at  Robles, 


CLARENCE.  233 

he  felt  it  react  against  his  own  ethics. 
Was  she  not  right  in  her  delightful  materi- 
alism? Was  she  not  happier  than  if  she 
had  been  consistently  true  to  Mrs.  Peyton, 
to  the  convent,  to  the  episode  of  her  theat- 
rical career,  to  Jim  Hooker  —  even  to  him- 
self? And  did  he  conscientiously  believe 
that  Hooker  or  himself  had  suffered  from 
her  inconsistency  ?  No !  From  all  that  he 
had  heard,  she  was  a  suitable  helpmate  to 
the  senator,  in  her  social  attractiveness, 
her  charming  ostentations,  her  engaging 
vanity  that  disarmed  suspicion,  and  her  lack 
of  responsibility  even  in  her  partisanship. 
Nobody  ever  dared  to  hold  the  senator  re- 
sponsible for  her  promises,  even  while  en- 
joying the  fellowship  of  both,  and  it  is  said 
that  the  worthy  man  singiilarly  profited  by 
it.  Looking  upon  the  invitation  as  a  pos- 
sible distraction  to  his  gloomy  thoughts, 
Brant  resolved  to  go. 

The  moon  was  high  as  the  carriage 
whirled  him  out  of  the  still  stifling  avenues 
towards  the  Soldiers'  Home  —  a  sylvan  sub- 
urb frequented  by  cabinet  ministers  and 
the  President  —  where  the  good  Senator 
had  "decreed,"  like  Kubla  Khan,  "a  stately 
pleasure  dome,"  to  entertain  his  friends  and 


234  CLARENCE. 

partisans.  As  tliey  approached  the  house, 
the  trembling  light  like  fireflies  through  the 
leaves,  the  warm  silence  broken  only  by  a 
military  band  playiag  a  drowsy  waltz  on  the 
veranda,  and  the  heavy  odors  of  jessamine 
in  the  air,  thrilled  Brant  with  a  sense  of 
shame  as  he  thought  of  his  old  comrades 
in  the  field.  But  this  was  presently  dissi- 
pated by  the  imiforms  that  met  him  in  the 
hall,  with  the  presence  of  some  of  his  dis- 
tinguished superiors.  At  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  with  a  circling  background  of  the 
shining  crosses  and  ribbons  of  the  diplo- 
matic corps,  stood  Susy  —  her  bare  arms 
and  neck  glittering  with  diamonds,  her  face 
radiant  with  childlike  vivacity.  A  signifi- 
cant pressure  of  her  little  glove  as  he  made 
his  bow  seemed  to  be  his  only  welcome,  but  a 
moment  later  she  caught  his  arm.  "You  've 
yet  to  know  ^m,"  she  said  in  a  half  whis- 
per; "he  thinks  a  good  deal  of  himself  — 
just  like  Jim.  But  he  makes  others  be- 
lieve it,  and  that 's  where  poor  Jim  slipped 
up."  She  paused  before  the  man  thus 
characteristically  disposed  of,  and  presented 
Brant.  It  was  the  man  he  had  seen  before 
—  material,  capable,  dogmatic.  A  glance 
from  his  shrewd  eyes  —  accustomed  to  the 


CLARENCE.  235 

weig-liing  of  men's  weaknesses  and  ambitions 
—  and  a  few  hurried  phrases,  apparently 
satisfied  him  that  Brant  was  not  just  then 
important  or  available  to  him,  and  the  two 
men,  a  moment  later,  drifted  easily  apart. 
Brant  sauntered  listlessly  through  the 
crowded  rooms,  half  remorsefully  conscious 
that  he  had  taken  some  ii-revocable  step,  and 
none  the  less  assured  by  the  presence  of  two 
or  three  reporters  and  correspondents  who 
were  dogging  his  steps,  or  the  glance  of  two 
or  three  pretty  women  whose  curiosity  had 
evidently  been  aroused  by  the  singular  ab- 
straction of  this  handsome,  distinguished, 
but  sardonic-looking  officer.  But  the  next 
moment  he  was  genuinely  moved. 

A  tall  young  woman  had  just  glided  into 
the  centre  of  the  room  with  an  indolent  yet 
supple  gracefulness  that  seemed  familiar  to 
him.  A  change  in  her  position  suddenly 
revealed  her  face.  It  was  Miss  Faulkner. 
Previously  he  had  known  her  only  in  the 
riding  habit  of  Confederate  gray  v/hich  she 
had  at  first  affected,  or  in  the  light  muslin 
morning  dress  she  had  worn  at  Gray  Oaks. 
It  seemed  to  him,  to-night,  that  the  studied 
elegance  of  her  full  dress  became  her  still 
more ;  that  the  pretty  willfulness  of  her  chin 


236  CLARENCE. 

and  shoulders  was  chastened  and  modified 
by  the  pearls  round  her  fair  throat.  Sud- 
denly their  eyes  met ;  her  face  paled  visibly ; 
he  fancied  that  she  almost  leaned  against 
her  companion  for  support;  then  she  met 
his  glance  again  with  a  face  into  which  the 
color  had  as  suddenly  rushed,  but  with  eyes 
that  seemed  to  be  appealing  to  him  even  to 
the  point  of  pain  and  fright.  Brant  was  not 
conceited;  he  could  see  that  the  girl's  agita- 
tion was  not  the  effect  of  any  mere  personal 
influence  in  his  recognition,  but  of  some- 
thing else.  He  turned  hastily  away;  when 
he  looked  around  again  she  was  gone. 

Nevertheless  he  felt  filled  with  a  vague 
irritation.  Did  she  think  him  such  a  fool 
as  to  imperil  her  safety  by  openly  recogniz- 
ing her  without  her  consent?  Did  she  think 
that  he  would  dare  to  presume  upon  the 
service  she  had  done  him?  Or,  more  out- 
rageous thought,  had  she  heard  of  his  dis- 
grace, known  its  cause,  and  feared  that  he 
would  drag  her  into  a  disclosure  to  save 
himself  ?  No,  no ;  she  could  not  think  that ! 
She  had  perhaps  regretted  what  she  had 
done  in  a  freak  of  girlish  chivalry ;  she  had 
returned  to  her  old  feelings  and  partisan- 
ship; she  was  only  startled  at  meeting  the 


CLARENCE.  237 

single  witness  of  her  folly.  Well,  she  need 
not  fear !  He  would  as  studiously  avoid  her 
hereafter,  and  she  should  know  it.  And  yet 
—  yes,  there  was  a  "yet."  For  he  could  not 
forget  —  indeed,  in  the  past  three  weeks  it 
had  been  more  often  before  him  than  he 
cared  to  think  —  that  she  was  the  one  human 
being  who  had  been  capable  of  a  great  act 
of  self-sacrifice  for  him  —  her  enemy,  her 
accuser,  the  man  who  had  scarcely  treated 
her  civilly.  He  was  ashamed  to  remember 
now  that  this  thought  had  occurred  to  him 
at  the  bedside  of  his  wife  —  at  the  hour 
of  her  escape  —  even  on  the  fatal  slope  on 
which  he  had  been  struck  down.  And  now 
this  fond  illusion  must  go  with  the  rest  — 
the  girl  who  had  served  him  so  loyally  was 
ashamed  of  it !  A  bitter  smile  crossed  his 
face. 

"  Well,  I  don't  wonder !  Here  are  all  the 
women  asking  me  who  is  that  good-looking 
Mephistopheles,  with  the  burning  eyes,  who 
is  prowling  around  my  rooms  as  if  searching 
for  a  victim.  Why,  you  're  smiling  for  all 
the  world  like  poor  Jim  when  he  used  to  do 
the  Red  Avenger." 

Susy's  voice  —  and  illustration  —  recalled 
him  to  himself. 


238  CLARENCE. 

"Furious  I  may  be,"  he  said  with  a  gen- 
tler smile,  although  his  eyes  still  glittered, 
"furious  that  I  have  to  wait  until  the  one 
woman  I  came  to  see  —  the  one  woman  I 
have  not  seen  for  so  long,  while  these  pup- 
pets have  been  nightly  dancing  before  her 
—  can  give  me  a  few  moments  from  them, 
to  talk  of  the  old  days." 

In  his  reaction  he  was  quite  sincere,  al- 
though he  felt  a  slight  sense  of  remorse  as 
he  saw  the  quick,  faint  color  rise,  as  in  those 
old  days,  even  through  the  to-night's  pow- 
der of  her  cheek. 

"That's  like  the  old  Kla'vms,"  she  said, 
with  a  slight  pressure  of  his  arm,  "but  we 
will  not  have  a  chance  to  speak  until  later. 
When  they  are  nearly  all  gone,  you  '11  take 
me  to  get  a  little  refreshment,  and  we  '11 
have  a  chat  in  the  conservatory.  But  you 
must  drop  that  awfully  wicked  look  and 
make  yourself  generally  agreeable  to  those 
women  until  then." 

It  was,  perhaps,  part  of  this  reaction  which 
enabled  him  to  obey  his  hostess'  commands 
with  a  certain  recklessness  that,  however, 
seemed  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  previous 
Satanic  reputation  he  had  all  unconsciously 
achieved*     The  women  listened  to  the  cyni- 


CLARENCE.  239 

cal  flipijancy  of  tliis  good  -  looking  soldier 
with  an  undisguised  admiration  which  in 
turn  excited  curiosity  and  envy  from  his 
own  sex.  He  saw  the  whispered  question- 
ing, the  lifted  eyebrows,  scornful  shrugging 
of  shoulders  —  and  knew  that  the  story  of 
his  disgrace  was  in  the  air.  But  I  fear  this 
only  excited  him  to  further  recklessness  and 
triumph.  Once  he  thought  he  recognized 
Miss  Faulkner's  figure  at  a  distance,  and 
even  fancied  that  she  had  been  watchinff 
him;  but  he  only  redoubled  his  attentions 
to  the  fair  woman  beside  him,  and  looked 
no  more. 

Yet  he  was  glad  when  the  guests  began  to 
drop  off,  the  great  rooms  thinned,  and  Susy, 
appearing  on  the  arm  of  her  husband,  co- 
quettishly  reminded  him  of  his  j^romise. 

"For  I  want  to  talk  to  you  of  old  times. 
General  Brant,"  she  went  on,  turning  ex- 
planatorily to  Boompointer,  "married  my 
adopted  mother  in  California  —  at  Robles, 
a  dear  old  place  where  I  spent  my  earliest 
years.  So,  you  see,  we  are  sort  of  relations 
by  marriage,"  she  added,  with  delightful 
naivete. 

Hooker's  own  vainglorious  allusion  to  his 
relations   to    the    man   before    him   flashed 


240  CLARENCE. 

across  Brant's  mind,  but  it  left  now  only  a 
smile  on  liis  lips.  He  felt  lie  liad  already 
become  a  part  of  the  irresjDonsible  comedy 
played  around  him.  Why  should  he  re- 
sist, or  examine  its  ethics  too  closely?  He 
offered  his  arm  to  Susy  as  they  descended 
the  stairs,  but,  instead  of  pausing  in  the 
supper-room,  she  simply  passed  through  it 
with  a  significant  pressure  on  his  arm,  and, 
drawing  aside  a  muslin  curtain,  stepjjed  into 
the  moonlit  conservatory.  Behind  the  cur- 
tain there  was  a  small  rustic  settee ;  without 
releasing  his  arm  she  sat  down,  so  that 
when  he  dropped  beside  her,  their  hands 
met,  and  mutually  clasped. 

"Now,  Kla'uns,"  she  said,  with  a  slight, 
comfortable  shiver  as  she  nestled  beside 
him,  "it  's  a  little  like  your  chair  down  at 
old  Robles,  isn't  it?  —  tell  me!  And  to 
think  it 's  five  years  ago !  But,  Kla'ims, 
what  's  the  matter?  You  are  changed," 
she  said,  looking  at  his  dark  face  in  the 
moonlight,  "or  you  have  something  to  tell 
me." 

"I  have." 

"And  it 's  something  dreadful,  I  know!  " 
she  said,  wrinkling  her  brows  with  a  pretty 
terror.      "Could  n't    you   pretend  you  liad 


CLARENCE.  241 

told  It  to  me,  and  let  us  go  on  just  the  same? 
Could  n't  you,  Kla'uns  ?     Tell  me !  " 

"I  am  afraid  I  couldn't,"  lie  said,  with 
a  sad  smile. 

"Is  it  about  yourself,  Kla'uns?  You 
know,"  she  went  on  with  cheerful  rapidity, 
"I  know  everything  about  you  —  I  always 
did,  you  know  —  and  I  don't  care,  and 
never  did  care,  and  it  don't,  and  never  did, 
make  the  slightest  difference  to  me.  So 
don't  tell  it,  and  waste  time,  Kla'uns." 

"It 's  not  about  me,  but  about  my  wife!  " 
he  said  slowly. 

Her  expression  changed  slightly. 

"Oh,  her !  "  she  said  after  a  pause.  Then, 
half -resignedly,  "Go  on,  Kla'uns." 

He  began.  He  had  a  dozen  times  re- 
hearsed to  himself  his  miserable  story,  al- 
ways feeling  it  keenly,  and  even  fearing 
that  he  might  be  carried  away  by  emotion 
or  morbid  sentiment  in  telling  it  to  another. 
But,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  himself 
telling  it  practically,  calmly,  almost  cyni- 
cally, to  his  old  playmate,  repressing  the 
half  devotion  and  even  tenderness  that  had 
governed  him,  from  the  time  that  his  wife, 
disguised  as  the  mulatto  woman,  had  se- 
cretly watched  him  at  his  office,  to  the  hour 


242  CLARENCE. 

that  lie  had  passed  through  the  lines.  He 
withheld  only  the  incident  of  Miss  Faulk- 
ner's complicity  and  sacrifice. 

"And  she  got  away,  after  having  kicked 
you  out  of  your  place,  Kla'uns?  "  said  Susy, 
when  he  had  ended. 

Clarence  stiffened  beside  her.  But  he  felt 
he  had  gone  too  far  to  quarrel  with  his  con- 
fidante. 

"She  went  away.  I  honestly  believe  we 
shall  never  meet  again,  or  I  should  not  be 
telling  you  this !  " 

"Kla'uns,"  she  said  lightly,  taking  his 
hand  again,  "don't  you  believe  it!  She 
won't  let  you  go.  You  're  one  of  those  men 
that  a  woman,  when  she  's  once  hooked  on 
to,  won't  let  go  of,  even  when  she  believes 
she  no  longer  loves  him,  or  meets  bigger  and 
better  men.  I  reckon  it 's  because  you  're 
so  different  from  other  men;  maybe  there 
are  so  many  different  things  about  you  to 
hook  on  to,  and  you  don't  slip  off  as  easily 
as  the  others.  Now,  if  you  were  like  old 
Peyton,  her  first  husband,  or  like  poor  Jim, 
or  even  my  Boompointer,  you  'd  be  all  right! 
No,  ray  boy,  all  we  can  do  is  to  try  to  keep 
her  from  getting  at  you  here.  I  reckon  she 
won't  trust  herself  in  Washington  again  in 
a  hurry." 


CLARENCE.  243 

"  But  I  cannot  stay  here ;  my  career  is  in 
the  field." 

"Your  career  is  alongside  o'  me,  honey 

—  and  Boompointer.  But  nearer  me.  We'll 
fix  all  that.  I  heard  something  about  your 
being  in  disgrace,  but  the  story  was  that 
you  were  sweet  on  some  secesh  girl  down 
there,  and  neglected  your  business,  Kla'uns. 
But,  Lordy !  to  think  it  was  only  your  own 
wife !  Never  mind ;  we  '11  straighten  that 
out.  We  've  had  worse  jobs  than  that  on. 
Why,  there  was  that  commissary  who  was 
buying  up  dead  horses  at  one  end  of  the 
field,  and  selling  them  to  the  Government 
for  mess  beef  at  the  other;  and  there  was 
that  general  who  would  n't  make  an  at- 
tack when  it  rained ;  and  the  other  general 

—  you  know  who  I  mean,  Kla'uns  —  who 
wouldn't  invade  the  State  where  his  sister 
lived;  but  we  straightened  them  out,  some- 
how, and  they  were  a  heap  worse  than  you. 
We  '11  get  you  a  position  in  the  war  de- 
pai'tment  here,  one  of  the  bureau  offices, 
where  you  keep  your  rank  and  your  uni- 
form—  you  don't  look  bad  in  it,  Kla'uns  — 
on  better  pay.  And  you  '11  come  and  see 
me,  and  we  '11  talk  over  old  times." 

Brant  felt  his  heart  turn  sick  within  him. 


244  CLARENCE. 

But  he  was  at  her  mercy  now!     He  said, 
with  an  effort,  — 

"But  I  've  told  you  that  my  career  —  nay, 
my  life  —  now  is  in  the  field." 

"Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Kla'uns,  and  leave 
it  there!  You  have  done  your  work  of 
fighting  —  mighty  good  fighting,  too,  — 
and  everybody  knows  it.  You  've  earned  a 
change.     Let  others  take  your  place." 

He  shuddered,  as  he  remembered  that  his 
wife  had  made  the  same  appeal.  Was  he  a 
fool  then,  and  these  two  women  —  so  totally 
unlike  in  everything  —  right  in  this  ? 

"Come,  Kla'uns,"  said  Susy,  relapsing 
again  against  his  shoulder.  "Now  talk  to 
me!  You  don't  say  what  you  think  of  me, 
of  my  home,  of  my  fiu-niture,  of  my  posi- 
tion —  even  of  him !     Tell  me !  " 

"I  find  you  well,  prosperous,  and  happy," 
he  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Is  that  all  ?     And  ho w  do  I  look  ? ' ' 

She  turned  her  still  youthful,  mischievous 
face  towards  him  in  the  moonlight.  The 
witchery  of  her  blue  eyes  was  still  there 
as  of  old,  the  same  frank  irresponsibility 
beamed  from  them ;  her  parted  lips  seemed 
to  give  him  back  the  breath  of  his  youth. 
He  started,  but  she  did  not. 


CLARENCE.  245 

"Susy,  dear! " 

It  was  her  husband's  voice. 

"I  quite  forgot,"  the  Senator  went  on,  as 
he  drew  the  curtam  aside,  "that  you  are  en- 
gaged with  a  friend ;  but  Miss  Faulkner  is 
waiting  to  say  good-night,  and  I  volunteered 
to  find  you." 

"Tell  her  to  wait  a  moment,"  said  Susy, 
with  an  impatience  that  was  as  undisguised 
as  it  was  without  embarrassment  or  confu- 
sion. 

But  Miss  Faulkner,  unconsciously  follow- 
ing Mr.  Boompointer,  was  already  upon 
them.  For  a  moment  the  whole  four  were 
silent,  although  perfectly  composed.  Sena- 
tor Boompointer,  unconscious  of  any  infeli- 
city in  his  interruption,  was  calmly  waiting. 
Clarence,  opposed  suddenly  to  the  young  girl 
whom  he  believed  was  avoiding  his  recog- 
nition, rose,  coldly  imperturbable.  Miss 
Faulkner,  looking  taUer  and  more  erect  in 
the  long  folds  of  her  satin  cloak,  neither 
paled  nor  blushed,  as  she  regarded  Susy  and 
Brant  with  a  smile  of  well-bred  apology. 

"I  expect  to  leave  Washington  to-mor- 
row, and  may  not  be  able  to  call  again,"  she 
said,  "or  I  would  not  have  so  particularly 
pressed  a  leave-taking  upon  you." 


246  CLARENCE. 

"I  was  talking  witli  my  old  friend,  Gen- 
eral Brant,"  said  Snsy,  more  by  way  of  in- 
troduction than  apology. 

Brant  bowed.  For  an  instant  the  clear 
eyes  of  Miss  Faulkner  slipped  icily  across 
his  as  she  made  him  an  old-fashioned  South- 
ern courtesy,  and,  taking  Susy's  arm,  she 
left  the  room.  Brant  did  not  linger,  but 
took  leave  of  his  host  almost  in  the  same 
breath.  At  the  front  door  a  well-appointed 
carriage  of  one  of  the  Legations  had  just 
rolled  into  waiting.  He  looked  back;  he 
saw  Miss  Faulkner,  erect  and  looking  like 
a  bride  in  her  gauzy  draperies,  descending 
the  stairs  before  the  waiting  servants.  He 
felt  his  heart  beat  strangely.  He  hesitated, 
recalled  himself  with  an  effort,  hurriedly 
stepped  from  the  porch  into  the  path,  as  he 
heard  the  carriage  door  close  behind  him  in 
the  distance ,  and  then  felt  the  dust  from  her 
horse's  hoofs  rise  around  him  as  she  drove 
past  him  and  away. 


CHAPTEE   III. 

Although  Brant  was  convinced  as  soon 
as  lie  left  the  house  that  he  could  not  accept 
anything  from  the  Boompointer  influence, 
and  that  his  interview  with  Susy  was  fruit- 
less, he  knew  that  he  must  temporize. 
While  he  did  not  believe  that  his  old  play- 
mate would  willingly  betray  him,  he  was 
uneasy  when  he  thought  of  the  vanity  and 
impulsiveness  which  might  compromise  him 
—  or  of  a  possible  jealousy  that  might  seek 
revenge.  Yet  he  had  no  reason  to  believe 
that  Susy's  nature  was  jealous,  or  that  she 
was  likely  to  have  any  cause ;  but  the  fact 
remained  that  Miss  Faulkner's  innocent  in- 
trusion upon  their  tete-a-tete  affected  him 
more  strongly  than  anything  else  in  his  in- 
terview with  Susy.  Once  out  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  that  house,  it  struck  him,  too,  that 
Miss  Faulkner  was  almost  as  much  of  an 
alien  in  it  as  himself.  He  wondered  what 
she  had  been  doing  there.  Could  it  be  pos- 
sible that  she  was  obtaining  information  for 


248  CLARENCE. 

tlie  South?  But  he  rejected  the  idea  as 
quickly  as  it  had  occurred  to  him.  Perhaps 
there  could  be  no  stronger  proof  of  the  un- 
conscious influence  the  young  girl  already 
had  over  him. 

He  remembered  the  liveries  of  the  diplo- 
matic carriage  that  had  borne  her  away,  and 
ascertained  without  difficulty  that  her  sister 
had  married  one  of  the  foreign  ministers, 
and  that  she  was  a  guest  in  his  house.  But 
he  was  the  more  astonished  to  hear  that  she 
and  her  sister  were  considered  to  be  South- 
ern Unionists  —  and  were  greatly  petted  in 
governmental  circles  for  their  sacrificing 
fidelity  to  the  flag.  His  informant,  an  offi- 
cial in  the  State  Department,  added  that 
Miss  Matilda  might  have  been  a  good  deal 
of  a  madcap  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  —  for 
the  sisters  had  a  brother  in  the  Confederate 
service  —  but  that  she  had  changed  greatly, 
and,  indeed,  within  a  month.  "For,"  he 
added,  "she  was  at  the  White  House  for 
the  first  time  last  week,  and  they  say  the 
President  talked  more  to  her  than  to  any 
other  woman." 

The  indescribable  sensation  with  which 
this  simple  information  filled  Brant  startled 
him  more  than  the  news  itself.     Hope,  joy, 


CLARENCE.  249 

fear,  distrust,  and  despair,  alternately  dis- 
tracted him.  He  recalled  Miss  Faulkner's 
almost  agonizing-  glance  of  appeal  to  him  in 
the  drawing-room  at  Susy's,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  equally  consistent  with  the  truth  of 
what  he  had  just  heard  —  or  some  monstrous 
treachery  and  deceit  of  which  she  might  be 
capable.  Even  now  she  might  be  a  secret 
emissary  of  some  spy  within  the  President's 
family;  she  might  have  been  in  corresjjond- 
ence  with  some  traitor  in  the  Boompointer 
clique,  and  her  imploring  glance  only  the 
result  of  a  fear  of  exposure.  Or,  again,  she 
might  have  truly  recanted  after  her  escapade 
at  Gray  Oaks,  and  feared  only  his  recollec- 
tion of  her  as  go-between  of  spies.  And  yet 
both  of  these  presumptions  were  inconsistent 
with  her  conduct  in  the  conservatory.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  this  impulsive  wo- 
man, capable  of  doing  what  he  had  himself 
known  her  to  do,  and  equally  sensitive  to 
the  shame  or  joy  of  such  impulses,  should  be 
the  same  conventional  woman  of  society  who 
had  so  coldly  recognized  and  parted  from 
him. 

But  this  interval  of  doubt  was  transitory. 
The  next  day  he  received  a  dispatch  from 
the  War  Department,  ordering  him  to  re- 


250  CLARENCE. 

port  himself  for  duty  at  once.  With  a  beat- 
ing heart  he  hurried  to  the  Secretary.  But 
that  official  had  merely  left  a  memorandum 
with  his  assistant  directing  General  Brant 
to  accompany  some  fresh  levies  to  a  camp 
of  "organization"  near  the  front.  Brant 
felt  a  chill  of  disappointment.  Duties  of 
this  kind  had  been  left  to  dubious  regular 
army  veterans,  hurriedly  displaced  general 
officers,  and  favored  detrimentals.  But  if 
it  was  not  restoration,  it  was  no  longer  in- 
action, and  it  was  at  least  a  release  from 
Washington. 

It  was  also  evidently  the  result  of  some 
influence  —  but  hardly  that  of  the  Boom- 
pointers,  for  he  knew  that  Susy  wished 
to  keep  him  at  the  Capital.  Was  there  an- 
other power  at  work  to  send  him  away 
from  AVashington?  His  previous  doubts  re- 
turned. Nor  were  they  dissipated  when  the 
chief  of  the  bureau  placed  a  letter  before 
him  with  the  remark  that  it  had  been  en- 
trusted to  him  by  a  lady  with  the  request 
that  it  should  be  delivered  only  into  his  own 
hands. 

"She  did  not  know  your  hotel  address, 
but  ascertained  you  were  to  call  here.  She 
said  it  was  of  some  importance.     There  is 


CLARENCE.  251 

no  mystery  about  it,  General,"  continued  the 
official  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  Brant's 
handsome,  jjerplexed  face,  "although  it's 
from  a  very  pretty  woman  —  whom  we  all 
know." 

"Mrs.  Boompointer? "  suggested  Brant, 
with  affected  lightness. 

It  was  a  maladroit  speech.  The  official's 
face  darkened. 

"We  have  not  yet  become  a  Postal  De- 
partment for  the  Boompointers,  General,"  he 
said  dryly,  "however  great  their  influence 
elsewhere.  It  was  from  rather  a  different 
style  of  woman  —  Miss  Faulkner.  You  will 
receive  your  papers  later  at  your  hotel,  and 
leave  to-night." 

Brant's  unlucky  slip  was  stiU  potent 
enough  to  divert  the  official  attention,  or  he 
would  have  noticed  the  change  in  his  visitor's 
face,  and  the  abruptness  of  his  departure. 

Once  in  the  street.  Brant  tore  off  the  en- 
velope. But  beneath  it  was  another,  on 
which  was  written  in  a  delicate,  refined 
hand:  "Please  do  not  open  this  until  you 
reach  your  destination." 

Then  she  knew  he  was  going!  And  per- 
haps this  was  her  influence?  All  his  sus- 
picions again  returned.     She  knew  he  was 


252  CLARENCE. 

going  near  the  lines,  and  his  very  appoint- 
ment, through  her  power,  might  be  a  plot  to 
serve  her  and  the  enemy !  Was  this  letter, 
which  she  was  entrusting  to  him,  the  cover  of 
some  missive  to  her  Southern  friends  which 
she  expected  him  to  carry  —  perhaps  as  a  re- 
turn for  her  own  act  of  self-sacrifice  ?  Was 
this  the  appeal  she  had  been  making  to  his 
chivalry,  his  gratitude,  his  honor?  The  per- 
spiration stood  in  beads  on  his  forehead. 
What  defect  lay  hidden  in  his  nature  that 
seemed  to  make  him  an  easy  victim  of  these 
intriguing  women?  He  had  not  even  the 
excuse  of  gallantry;  less  susceptible  to  the 
potencies  of  the  sex  than  most  men,  he  was 
still  compelled  to  bear  that  reputation.  He 
remembered  his  coldness  to  Miss  Faulkner 
in  the  first  days  of  their  meeting,  and  her 
effect  upon  his  subalterns.  Why  had  she 
selected  him  from  among  them  —  when  she 
could  have  modeled  the  others  like  wax  to 
her  purposes?  Why?  And  yet  with  the 
question  came  a  possible  answer  that  he 
hardly  dared  to  think  of  —  that  in  its  very 
vagueness  seemed  to  fill  him  with  a  stimu- 
lating thrill  and  hopefulness.  He  quickened 
his  pace.  He  would  take  the  letter,  and 
yet  be  master  of  himself  when  the  time  came 
to  open  it. 


CLARENCE. 


253 


That  time  came  three  days  later,  in  his 
tent  at  Three  Pines  Crossing.  As  he  broke 
open  the  envelope,  he  was  relieved  to  find 
that  it  contained  no  other  iuclosure,  and 
seemed  intended  only  for  himself.  It  began 
abruptly :  — 

"When  you  read  this,  you  will  under- 
stand why  I  did  not  speak  to  you  when  we 
met  last  night;  why  I  even  dreaded  that 
you  might  speak  to  me,  knowing,  as  I  did, 
what  I  ought  to  tell  you  at  that  place  and 
moment  —  something  you  could  only  know 
from  me.  I  did  not  know  you  were  in 
Washington,  although  I  knew  you  were  re- 
lieved; I  had  no  way  of  seeing  you  or  send- 
ing to  you  before,  and  I  only  came  to  Mrs. 
Boompointer's  party  in  the  hope  of  hearing 
news  of  you. 

"  You  know  that  my  brother  was  captured 
by  your  pickets  in  company  with  another 
officer.  He  thinks  you  suspected  the  truth 
—  that  he  and  his  friend  were  hovering  near 
your  lines  to  effect  the  escape  of  the  spy. 
But  he  says  that,  although  they  failed  to 
help  her,  she  did  escape,  or  was  passed 
through  the  lines  by  your  connivance.  He 
says  that  you  seemed  to  know  her,  that  from 
what  Rose  —  the  mulatto  woman  —  told  him, 


254  CLARENCE. 

you  and  she  were  evidently  old  friends.  I 
would  not  speak  of  tliis,  nor  intrude  upon 
your  private  affairs,  only  that  I  think  you 
ought  to  know  that  /  had  no  knowledge  of  it 
when  I  was  in  your  house,  but  believed  her 
to  be  a  stranger  to  you.  You  gave  me  no  in- 
timation that  you  knew  her,  and  I  believed 
that  you  were  frank  with  me.  But  I  should 
not  speak  of  this  at  all  —  for  I  believe  that 
it  would  have  made  no  difference  to  me  in 
repairing  the  wrong  that  I  thought  I  had 
done  you  —  only  that,  as  I  am  forced  by  cir- 
cumstances to  tell  you  the  terrible  ending  of 
this  story,  you  ought  to  know  it  all. 

"My  brother  wrote  to  me  that  the  even- 
ing after  you  left,  the  burying  party  picked 
up  the  body  of  what  they  believed  to  be  a 
mulatto  woman  lying  on  the  slope.  It  was 
not  Rose,  but  the  body  of  the  very  woman 
—  the  real  and  only  spy  —  whom  you  had 
passed  through  the  lines.  She  was  accident- 
ally killed  by  the  Confederates  in  the  first 
attack  upon  you,  at  daybreak.  But  only 
my  brother  and  his  friend  recognized  her 
through-  her  blackened  face  and  disguise, 
and  on  the  plea  that  she  was  a  servant  of 
one  of  their  friends,  they  got  permission 
from  the  division   commander  to  take  her 


CLARENCE.  255 

away,  and  she  was  buried  by  her  friends  and 
among  her  people  in  the  little  cemetery  of 
Three  Pines  Crossing,  not  far  from  where 
you  have  gone.  My  brother  thought  that 
I  ought  to  tell  you  this:  it  seems  that  he 
and  his  friend  had  a  strange  sympathy  for 
you  in  what  they  ajipear  to  know  or  guess  of 
your  relations  with  that  woman,  and  I  think 
he  was  touched  by  what  he  thought  was  your 
kindness  and  chivalry  to  him  on  account  of 
,  his  sister.  But  I  do  not  think  he  ever  knew, 
or  will  know,  how  great  is  the  task  that  he 
has  imposed  upon  me. 

"You  know  now,  do  you  not,  why  I  did 
not  speak  to  you  when  we  first  met;  it 
seemed  so  impossible  to  do  it  in  an  atmos- 
phere and  a  festivity  that  was  so  incongru- 
ous with  the  dreadful  message  I  was  charged 
with.  And  when  I  had  to  meet  you  later 
—  perhaps  I  may  have  wronged  you  —  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  so  preoccu- 
pied and  interested  with  other  things  that  I 
might  perhaps  only  be  wearying  you  with 
something  you  cared  little  for,  or  perhaps 
already  knew  and  had  quickly  forgotten. 

"I  had  been  wanting  to  say  something 
else  to  you  when  I  had  got  rid  of  my  dread- 
ful message.    I  do  not  know  if  you  still  care 


256  CLARENCE. 

to  hear  it.  But  you  were  once  generous 
enough  to  think  that  I  had  done  you  a  ser- 
vice in  bringing  a  letter  to  your  commander. 
Although  I  know  better  than  anybody  else 
the  genuine  devotion  to  your  duty  that  made 
you  accept  my  poor  service,  from  all  that  I 
can  hear,  you  have  never  had  the  credit  of 
it.  Will  you  not  try  me  again?  I  am 
more  in  favor  here,  and  I  might  yet  be  more 
successful  in  showing  your  superiors  how 
true  you  have  been  to  your  trust,  even  if. 
you  have  little  faith  in  your  friend,  Matilda 
Faulkner." 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  motionless, 
with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  Then  he  arose, 
ordered  his  horse,  and  galloped  away. 

There  was  little  difficulty  in  finding  the 
cemetery  of  Three  Pines  Crossing  —  a  hill- 
side slope,  hearsed  with  pine  and  cypress, 
and  starred  with  white  crosses,  that  in  the 
distance  looked  like  flowers.  Still  less  was 
there  in  finding  the  newer  marble  shaft 
among  the  older  lichen-spotted  slabs,  which 
bore  the  simple  words:  "Alice  Benham, 
Martyr,"  A  few  Confederate  soldiers,  un- 
der still  plainer  and  newer  wooden  head- 
stones, carved  only  with  initials,  lay  at  her 
feet.     Brant  sank  on  his  knees  beside  the 


CLARENCE.  257 

grave,  but  he  was  shocked  to  see  that  the 
base  of  the  marble  was  stained  with  the  red 
pollen  of  the  fateful  lily,  whose  blossoms 
had  been  heaped  upon  her  mound,  but 
whose  fallen  petals  lay  dark  and  sodden  in 
decay. 

How  long  he  remained  there  he  did  not 
know.  And  then  a  solitary  bugle  from  the 
camp  seemed  to  summon  him,  as  it  had  once 
before  summoned  him,   and  he  went  away 

—  as  he  had  gone  before  —  to  a  separation 
that  he  now  knew  was  for  all  time. 

Then  followed  a  month  of  superintend- 
ence and  drill,  and  the  infusing  into  the 
little  camp  under  his  instruction  the  spirit 
which  seemed  to  be  passing  out  of  his  own 
life  forever.  Shut  in  by  alien  hills  on  the 
borderland  of  the  great  struggle,  from  time 
to  time  reports  reached  him  of  the  bitter 
fiofhtins:,  and  almost  disastrous  successes  of 
his  old  division  commander.  Orders  came 
from  Washington  to  hurry  the  preparation 
of  his  raw  levies  to  the  field,  and  a  faint 
hope  sprang  up  in  his  mind.  But  follow- 
ing it  came  another  dispatch  ordering  his 
return  to  the  Capital. 

He  reached  it  with  neither  hope  nor  fear 

—  so  benumbed  had  become  his  spirit  under 


258  CLARENCE. 

this  last  trial,  and  what  seemed  to  be  now 
the  mockery  of  this  last  sacrifice  to  his  wife. 
Though  it  was  no  longer  a  question  of  her 
life  and  safety,  he  knew  that  he  could  still 
preserve  her  memory  from  stain  by  keeping 
her  secret,  even  though  its  divulgings  might 
clear  his  own.  For  that  reason,  he  had  even 
hesitated  to  inform  Susy  of  her  death,  in  the 
fear  that,  in  her  thoughtless  irresponsibility 
and  impulsiveness,  she  might  be  tempted 
to  use  it  in  his  favor.  He  had  made  his 
late  appointment  a  plea  for  her  withholding 
any  present  efforts  to  assist  him.  He  even 
avoided  the  Boompointers'  house,  in  what  he 
believed  was  partly  a  duty  to  the  memory 
of  his  wife.  But  he  saw  no  inconsistency 
in  occasionally  extending  his  lonely  walks 
to  the  vicinity  of  a  foreign  Legation,  or  in 
being  lifted  with  a  certain  expectation  at  the 
sight  of  its  liveries  on  the  Avenue.  There 
was  a  craving  for  sympathy  in  his  heart, 
which  Miss  Faulkner's  letter  had  awakened. 
Meantime,  he  had  reported  himself  for 
duty  at  the  War  Department  —  with  little 
hope,  however,  in  that  formality.  But  he 
was  surprised  the  next  day  when  the  chief 
of  the  bureau  informed  him  that  his  claim 
was  before  the  President. 


CLARENCE.  259 

"I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  presented 
any  claim,"  he  said,  a  little  haughtily. 

The  bureau  chief  looked  up  with  some 
surprise.  This  quiet,  patient,  reserved  man 
had  puzzled  him  once  or  twice  before. 

"Perhaps  I  should  say  '  case,'  General," 
he  said,  drily.  "But  the  personal  interest 
of  the  highest  executive  in  the  land  strikes 
me  as  being  desirable  in  anything." 

"I  only  mean  that  I  have  obeyed  the  or- 
ders of  the  department  in  reporting  myself 
here,  as  I  have  done,"  said  Brant,  with  less 
feeling,  but  none  the  less  firmness;  "and 
I  should  imagine  it  was  not  the  duty  of  a 
soldier  to  question  them.  Which  I  fancy  a 
'  claim  '  or  a  '  case  '  would  imply." 

He  had  no  idea  of  taking  this  attitude  be- 
fore, but  the  disappointments  of  the  past 
month,  added  to  this  first  official  notice  of 
his  disgrace,  had  brought  forward  that 
dogged,  reckless,  yet  half -scornful  obstinacy 
that  was  part  of  his  nature. 

The  official  smiled. 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  are  waiting  to  hear 
from  the  President,"  he  said  drily. 

"I  am  awaiting  orders  from  the  de- 
partment," returned  Brant  quietly,  "but 
whether  they  originate  in  the  President  as 


260  CLARENCE. 

commander-in-chief,  or  not  —  it  is  not  for 
me  to  intjuire." 

Even  when  he  reached  his  hotel  this 
half-savage  indifference  which  had  taken 
the  place  of  his  former  incertitude  had  not 
changed.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
reached  the  crisis  of  his  life  where  he  was 
no  longer  a  free  agent,  and  could  wait,  su- 
perior alike  to  effort  or  expectation.  And 
it  was  with  a  merely  dispassionate  curiosity 
that  he  found  a  note  the  next  morning  from 
the  President's  private  secretary,  informing 
him  that  the  President  would  see  him  early 
that  day. 

A  few  hours  later  he  was  ushered  through 
the  public  rooms  of  the  White  House  to  a 
more  secluded  part  of  the  household.  The 
messenger  stopped  before  a  modest  door  and 
knocked.  It  was  opened  by  a  tall  figure  — 
the  President  himself.  He  reached  out  a 
long  arm  to  Brant,  who  stood  hesitatingly 
on  the  threshold,  grasped  his  hand,  and  led 
him  into  the  room.  It  had  a  single,  large, 
elaborately  draped  window  and  a  handsome 
medallioned  carpet,  which  contrasted  with 
the  otherwise  almost  appalling  simplicity  of 
the  furniture.  A  single  plain  angular  desk, 
with  a  blotting  pad  and  a  few  sheets  of  large 


CLARENCE.  261 

foolscap  upon  it,  a  waste-paper  basket  and 
four  plain  armchairs,  completed  the  interior 
with  a  contrast  as  simple  and  homely  as 
its  long  -  limbed,  black  -  coated  occupaut. 
Releasing  the  hand  of  the  general  to  shut  a 
door  which  opened  into  another  apartment, 
the  President  shoved  an  armchair  towards 
him  and  sank  somewhat  wearily  into  another 
before  the  desk.  But  only  for  a  moment; 
the  long  shambling  limbs  did  not  seem  to 
adjust  themselves  easily  to  the  chair;  the 
high  narrow  shoulders  drooped  to  find  a  more 
comfortable  lounging  attitude,  shifted  from 
side  to  side,  and  the  long  legs  moved  dis- 
persedly.  Yet  the  face  that  was  turned 
towards  Brant  was  humorous  and  tranquil. 

"I  was  told  I  should  have  to  send  for  you 
if  I  wished  to  see  you,"  he  said  smilingly. 

Already  mollified,  and  perhaps  again  fall- 
ing under  the  previous  influence  of  this  sin- 
gular man.  Brant  began  somewhat  hesitat- 
ingly to  explain. 

But  the  President  checked  him  gently,  — 

"You  don't  understand.  It  was  some- 
thing new  to  my  experience  here  to  find  an 
able-bodied  American  citizen  with  an  honest 
genuine  grievance  who  had  to  have  it  drawn 
from   him  like  a  decayed  tooth.     But  you 


262  CLARENCE. 

have  been  here  before.  I  seem  to  remember 
your  face." 

Brant's  reserve  had  gone.  He  admitted 
that  he  had  twice  sought  an  audience  — 
but  — 

"  You  dodged  the  dentist  !  That  was 
wrong."  As  Brant  made  a  slight  movement 
of  deprecation  the  President  continued:  "I 
understand !  Not  from  fear  of  giving  pain 
to  yourself  but  to  others.  I  don't  know 
that  that  is  right,  either.  A  certain 
amount  of  pain  must  be  suffered  in  this 
world  —  even  by  one's  enemies.  Well,  I 
have  looked  into  your  case.  General  Brant." 
He  took  up  a  piece  of  paper  from  his  desk, 
scrawled  with  two  or  three  notes  in  pencil. 
"I  think  this  is  the  way  it  stands.  You 
were  commanding  a  position  at  Gray  Oaks 
when  information  was  received  by  the  de- 
partment that,  either  through  neglect  or 
complicity,  spies  were  passing  through  your 
lines.  There  was  no  attempt  to  prove  your 
neglect;  your  orders,  the  facts  of  your  per- 
sonal care  and  precaution,  were  all  before 
the  department.  But  it  was  also  shown 
that  your  wife,  from  whom  you  were  only 
temporarily  separated,  was  a  notorious  se- 
cessionist ;  that,  before  the  war,  you  yourself 


CLARENCE.  263 

were  suspected,  and  that,  therefore,  you 
were  quite  capable  of  evading  your  own  or- 
ders, which  you  may  have  only  given  as  a 
blind.  On  this  information  you  were  re- 
lieved by  the  department  of  your  command. 
Later  on  it  was  discovered  that  the  spy  was 
none  other  than  your  own  wife,  disguised  as 
a  mulatto;  that,  after  her  arrest  by  your 
own  soldiers,  you  connived  at  her  escape  — 
and  this  was  considered  conclusive  proof 
of  —  well,  let  us  say  —  your  treachery." 

"  But  I  did  not  know  it  was  my  wife  until 
she  was  arrested,"  said  Brant  impulsvely. 

The  President  knitted  his  eyebrows  hu- 
morously. 

"Don't  let  us  travel  out  of  the  record, 
General.  "You  're  as  bad  as  the  depart- 
ment. The  question  was  one  of  your  per- 
sonal treachery,  but  you  need  not  accept 
the  fact  that  you  were  justly  removed  be- 
cause your  wife  was  a  spy.  Now,  General, 
I  am  an  old  lawyer,  and  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you  that  in  Illinois  we  would  n't  hang  a 
yellow  dog  on  that  evidence  before  the  de- 
partment. But  when  I  was  asked  to  look 
into  the  matter  by  your  friends,  I  discovered 
something  of  more  importance  to  you.  I 
had  been  trying  to  find  a  scrap  of  evidence 


264  CLARENCE. 

that  would  justify  the  presumption  that  you 
had  sent  information  to  the  enemy.  I  found 
that  it  was  based  upon  the  fact  of  the  enemy 
being  in  possession  of  knowledge  at  the  first 
battle  at  Gray  Oaks,  which  could  only  have 
been  obtained  from  our  side,  and  which  led 
to  a  Federal  disaster;  that  you,  however, 
retrieved  by  your  gallantry.  I  then  asked 
the  secretary  if  he  was  prepared  to  show 
that  you  had  sent  the  information  with  that 
view,  or  that  you  had  been  overtaken  by  a 
tardy  sense  of  repentance.  He  preferred  to 
consider  my  suggestion  as  humorous.  But 
the  inquiry  led  to  my  further  discovery  that 
the  only  treasonable  correspondence  actually 
in  evidence  was  found  upon  the  body  of  a 
trusted  Federal  officer,  and  had  been  for- 
warded to  the  division  commander.  But 
there  was  no  record  of  it  in  the  case." 

"Why,  I  forwarded  it  myself,"  said  Brant 
eagerly. 

"So  the  division  commander  writes,"  said 
the  President,  smiling,  "and  he  forwarded 
it  to  the  department.  But  it  was  suppressed 
in  some  way.  Have  you  any  enemies.  Gen- 
eral Brant?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Then   you    probably   have.      You   are 


CLARENCE.  265 

young  and  successful.  Think  of  the  hun- 
dred other  officers  who  naturally  believe 
themselves  better  than  you  are,  and  haven't 
a  traitorous  wife.  Still,  the  department  may 
have  made  an  example  of  you  for  the  benefit 
of  the  only  man  who  couldn't  profit  by  it." 

"Might  it  not  have  been,  sir,  that  this 
suppression  was  for  the  good  report  of  the 
service  —  as  the  chief  offender  was  dead?  " 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  General, 
for  it  is  the  argument  I  have  used  success- 
fully in  behalf  of  your  wife." 

"Then  you  know  it  all,  sir?"  said  Brant 
after  a  gloomy  pause. 

"  All,  I  think.  Come,  General,  you 
seemed  just  now  to  be  uncertain  about  your 
enemies.  Let  me  assure  you,  you  need  not 
be  so  in  regard  to  your  friends. 

"I  dare  to  hope  I  have  found  one,  sir," 
said  Brant  with  almost  boyish  timidity. 

"Oh,  not  me!"  said  the  President,  with 
a  laugh  of  deprecation.  "  Some  one  much 
more  potent." 

"May  I  know  his  name,  Mr.  President?" 

"No,  for  it  is  a  woman.  You  were  nearly 
ruined  by  one.  General.  I  suppose  it 's  quite 
right  that  you  should  be  saved  by  one. 
And,  of  course,  irregularly." 


266  CLARENCE. 

"A  woman!  "  echoed  Brant. 

"Yes;  one  who  was  willing  to  confess 
herself  a  worse  spy  than  your  wife  —  a 
double  traitor  —  to  save  you !  Upon  my 
word,  General,  I  don't  know  if  the  depart- 
ment was  far  wrong;  a  man  with  such  an 
alternately  unsettling  and  convincing  effect 
upon  a  woman's  highest  political  convictions 
should  be  under  some  restraint.  Luckily 
the  department  knows  nothing  of  it." 

"  Nor  would  any  one  else  have  known  from 
me,"  said  Brant  eagerly.  I  trust  that  she 
did  not  think  —  that  you,  sir,  did  not  for  an 
instant  believe  that  I  "  — 

"  Oh  dear,  no !  Nobody  would  have  be- 
lieved you!  It  was  her  free  confidence  to 
me.  That  was  what  made  the  affair  so  diffi- 
cult to  handle.  For  even  her  bringing  your 
dispatch  to  the  division  commander  looked 
bad  for  you ;  and  you  know  he  even  doubted 
its  authenticity." 

"Does  she  —  does  Miss  Faulkner  know 
the  spy  was  my  wife?  "  hesitated  Brant. 

The  President  twisted  himself  in  his  chair, 
so  as  to  regard  Brant  more  gravely  with  his 
deep-set  eyes,  and  then  thoughtfully  rubbed 
his  leg. 

"Don't  let  VIS  travel  out  of  the  record, 


CLARENCE.  267 

General,  he  said  after  a  pause.  But  as 
the  color  surged  into  Brant's  cheek  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  said,  in  half -hu- 
morous recollection  — 

"No,  I  think  that  fact  was  first  gathered 
from  your  other  friend  —  Mr.  Hooker." 

"  Hooker !  "  said  Brant,  indignantly ;  "  did 
he  come  here?  " 

"Pray  don't  destroy  my  faith  in  Mr. 
Hooker,  General,"  said  the  President,  in 
half  -  weary,  half  -  humorous  deprecation. 
"Don't  tell  me  that  any  of  his  inventions 
are  true  !  Leave  me  at  least  that  magnifi- 
cent liar  —  the  one  perfectly  intelligible  wit- 
ness you  have.  For  from  the  time  that  he 
first  appeared  here  with  a  grievance  and  a 
claim  for  a  commission,  he  has  been  an  un- 
speakable joy  to  me 'and  a  convincing  testi- 
mony to  you.  Other  witnesses  have  been 
partisans  and  prejudiced ;  Mr.  Hooker  was 
frankly  true  to  himself.  How  else  should 
I  have  known  of  the  care  you  took  to  dis- 
guise yourself,  save  the  honor  of  your  uni- 
form, and  run  the  risk  of  being  shot  as  an 
unknown  spy  at  your  wife's  side,  except 
from  his  magnificent  version  of  Ms  part  in 
it?  How  else  shovild  I  have  known  the 
story  of  your  discovery  of  the  Californian 


268  CLARENCE. 

consj)iracy,  except  from  his  supreme  por- 
trayal of  it,  with  himself  as  the  hero?  No, 
you  must  not  forget  to  thank  Mr.  Hooker 
when  you  meet  him.  Miss  Faulkner  is  at 
present  more  accessible;  she  is  calling  on 
some  members  of  my  family  in  the  next 
room.     Shall  I  leave  you  with  her  ?  " 

Brant  rose  with  a  pale  face  and  a  quickly 
throbbing  heart  as  the  President,  glancing 
at  the  clock,  untwisted  himself  from  the 
chair,  and  shook  himself  out  full  length, 
and  rose  gradually  to  his  feet. 

"Your  wish  for  active  service  is  granted. 
General  Brant,"  he  said  slowly,  "and  you 
will  at  once  rejoin  your  old  division  com- 
mander, who  is  now  at  the  head  of  the  'I'enth 
Army  Corps.  But,"  he  said,  after  a  delib- 
erate pause,  "there  are  certain  rules  and 
regulations  of  your  service  that  even  /  can- 
not, with  decent  respect  to  your  depart- 
ment, override.  You  will,  therefore,  under- 
stand that  you  cannot  rejoin  the  army  in 
your  former  position." 

The  slight  flush  that  came  to  Brant's 
cheek  quickly  passed.  And  there  was  only 
the  unmistakable  sparkle  of  renewed  youth 
in  his  frank  eyes  as  he  said  — 

"Let  me  go  to  the  front  again,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, and  I  care  not  Ao^«." 


CLARENCE.  269 

The  President  smiled,  and,  laying  his 
heavy  hand  on  Brant's  shoulder,  pushed 
him  gently  towards  the  door  of  the  inner 
room. 

"I  was  only  about  to  say,"  he  added, 
as  he  opened  the  door,  "that  it  would  be 
necessary  for  you  to  rejoin  your  promoted 
commander  as  a  major-general.  And," 
he  continued,  lifting  his  voice,  as  he  gently 
pushed  his  guest  into  the  room,  "he  has  n't 
even  thanked  me  for  it,  Miss  Faulkner!  " 

The  door  closed  behind  him,  and  he  stood 
for  a  moment  dazed,  and  still  hearing  the 
distant  voice  of  the  President,  in  the  room 
he  had  just  quitted,  now  welcoming  a  new 
visitor.  But  the  room  before  him,  opening 
into  a  conservatory,  was  empty,  save  for  a 
single  figure  that  turned,  half  timidly,  half 
mischievously,  towards  him.  The  same 
quick,  sympathetic  glance  was  in  both  their 
faces;  the  same  timid,  happy  look  in  both 
their  eyes.     He  moved  quickly  to  her  side. 

"Then  you  knew  that  —  that  —  woman 
was  my  wife?"  he  said,  hurriedly,  as  he 
grasped  her  hand. 

She  cast  a  half -appealing  look  at  his  face 
—  a  half-friohtened  one  around  the  room 
and  at  the  open  door  beyond. 


270  CLARENCE. 

"Let  us,"  she  said  faintly,  "go  into  the 
conservatory. 

It  is  but  a  few  years  ago  that  the  vera- 
cious chronicler  of  these  pages  moved  with 
a  wondering  crowd  of  sightseers  in  the  gar- 
dens of  the  White  House.  The  war  cloud 
had  long  since  lifted  and  vanished;  the 
Potomac  flowed  peacefully  by  and  on  to 
where  once  lay  the  broad  plantation  of  a 
great  Confederate  leader  —  now  a  national 
cemetery  that  had  gathered  the  soldier  dead 
of  both  sections  side  by  side  in  equal  rest 
and  honor  —  and  the  great  goddess  once 
more  looked  down  serenely  from  the  dome 
of  the  white  Capitol.  The  chronicler's  at- 
tention was  attracted  by  an  erect,  hand- 
some soldierly-looking  man,  with  a  beard 
and  moustache  slightly  streaked  with  gray, 
pointing  out  the  various  objects  of  interest 
to  a  boy  of  twelve  or  fourteen  at  his  side. 

"  Yes ;  although,  as  I  told  you,  this  house 
belongs  only  to  the  President  of  the  United 
States  and  his  family,"  said  the  gentleman, 
smilingly,  "in  that  little  conservatory  I  pro- 
posed to  your  mother." 

"Oh!  Clarence,  how  can  you!  "  said  the 
lady,  reprovingly,  "you  know  it  was  long 
after  that!" 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 


Wilmer 
545 


